


I Am Stretched On Your Grave

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Canon-Typical Violence, Heavy Angst, Horror, James Bond-centric, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Past-James Bond/Vesper Lynd, Resurrection, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:59:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tanner was waiting for Bond on the tarmac when the small plane MI6 used for these sorts of operations landed on British soil once more. That was how Bond knew he was about to hear something he would rather not hear.</p><p>“007,” Tanner started as Bond climbed out.</p><p>“Who died?” Bond joked.</p><p>Tanner’s face went white, and Bond wished he could take back the last ten seconds.</p><p>(Or, the one where Q dies unexpectedly, Death takes on familiar faces, and Bond's willing to sacrifice anything for the love of his life.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [you'll be the death of me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4300527) by [skylights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylights/pseuds/skylights). 



> This was inspired by skylights, without whom the 00q fandom would be a sad place.
> 
> Many of the original characters in this fic debuted in "Brass and the Boundless Sea", which I finished a little while back now. There are little nods to that story in this one. (Yes, this is shameless self promo.)
> 
> The entirety of this work has been finished. I'll post MWF until it's up. I hope you enjoy!

**_MI6 Field Guide - Chapter I - Brief on Risen_ **

**_Risen_ ** _\- def. An being that has died and that has returned to life, i.e. “_ _risen_ _from the dead”. Classifications of Risen include those that rise of their own accord (Chapter II, Vengeful Risen), and those that are resurrected by another party (see: Chapter III, Undead Risen; also see: Chapter IV, Necromancy)._

**_Appearance._ ** _Risen are humanoid creatures that are animate, decaying corpses. Depending on time post death (TPD), time following resurrection (TFR), and type, the bodies of Risen can be largely intact or nearly unrecognizable. Risen do not dress themselves. Whatever clothing they may possess is what they were buried in and will be torn and stained from hunting. Risen with small TPD tend to start bipedal, though they revert to quadrupedal movement as TFR extends._

**_Characteristics and Behavioral Patterns._ ** _A majority of Risen have no vocal chords and no tongue, and as such cannot speak. Furthermore, Risen have no known basis for communication. All Risen are postulated to be solitary carnivorous hunters with the notable exception of the Undead Risen, which may or may not have a necromancer with them. Regardless of type, Risen are largely nocturnal and predatory. In a few isolated cases, Risen have been found to hunt during the day, though the majority of Risen do not. They consume the raw flesh of animals, preferably human, though Risen have been demonstrated to eat lesser animals in controlled studies. Furthermore, extensive testing has found that Risen preferentially seek out those they knew before death, including family members, pets, friends, and spouses. Current research aims to understand how Risen sense their prey and identify their favoured targets, but their sensory processes remain entirely unknown. Extreme caution must be taken in hunting Risen as a result._

**_The Double-0 Programme_ **

_The task of disposing of Risen is the exclusive purview of the double-0 programme and its constituents. Any operatives not members of the section found to be engaging in such behavior in any capacity will be court marshaled without exception and will face punishment at the discretion of the Chief Officer of MI6. Any suspected activity, whether it be a Risen sighting or the rumour of one, must be reported to double-0 programme administrators immediately. Failure to do so will be judged as harshly as one who has sought to combat Risen without the appropriate training._

 

**_MI6 Field Guide - Chapter I - Brief on Risen - Double-0 Programme Addendum, Issued 07–01-2016_ **

**CONFIDENTIAL: DOUBLE-0 SECTION ONLY**

_Agents be advised: in any number of reports on Vengeful Risen of late there has been mention of an individual accompanying the Risen who looks, sounds, or acts like a friend, family member, or spouse to the reporting agent. Due to the specialized nature of the individual’s knowledge, it is believed that the same entity appears as multiple different people._ **_This individual is a dangerous and unknown quantity that attacks when provoked. Do not engage._ **

**_Individual codename: DEATH._ **

* * *

_Nine o’clock in the morning on a Wednesday in London._

Q frowned at the screen of his laptop. He was partially soaked from the morning downpour, and his code wasn’t doing what he expected it to do. Typical. He reached for his mug and found it empty but for the dregs. _Typical_.

The doors at the far end of the room opened to reveal the distinctive form of one James Bond. He was going to be shipped out later that day, Q knew. He had only come to pick up his kit, but still. Q smiled. He did that a lot where Bond was concerned.

“Headed to Venice, are you?” Q asked, knowing full well where Bond was going. He’d made a habit of reading Bond’s dossiers, often before Bond himself received them.

Bond smiled back as he came to a halt at Q’s desk. They’d established clear boundaries—no public displays of affection at work, _especially not on the floor, James_ —but that didn’t stop Bond from itching with the desire to reach across the table and kiss Q. Last night was still fresh in his mind, as was the sight of Q in his bed not two hours ago.

“Hopefully not by myself,” Bond said.

Q flushed, the scowl on his face far from serious. “I’m not getting on a plane and you know it.”

“Mm,” Bond said, leaning over the table. He whispered in Q’s ear. Q coloured but didn’t move away, even as Bond detailed just how they’d be spending the trip once the mission was over.

“That’s— _Damn it, James_ , not here,” Q whispered. He pushed the kit across the table at Bond. “Take it and be off with you.”

Bond grinned and leaned back. “How cold,” he said, “but so—”

Q shut his eyes, now fully red. Bond relented.

“No fancy drop this time?” Bond asked. “We could have grabbed a bite, or a drink.”

Q lost some of the red in his face, but not by much. “Not today. I’m doing a systems sweep. Something odd came up and I need to make sure we don’t have a breach.”

Bond sobered. “A breach?” he asked.

Q shrugged. “It’s unlikely. Bugs in the code produce the strangest errors from time to time, but it never hurts to be sure.” Q blinked at Bond. “Do be careful, 007.”

“Aren’t I always?” Bond asked.

Q shook his head. “I can’t believe you can say that with a straight face.”

“I’ll be back,” Bond said, winking. “After all, we have a date.”

* * *

_Half past eleven on a Wednesday in Venice._

Bond touched down in Italy, kit safely stowed, and endured the short ride into the city itself by himself. He thought it a shame that Q hadn’t come, but maybe it was for the best. Bond had never really liked Venice.

He thought it had something to do with the canals. In many, the water was still, scummy and rank. The smell of dead, rotting things filled his nostrils and stung his eyes. The City of Masks had once held a certain allure for him, but no more. There were better places to go in Italy.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t in the city for pleasure. He had a job to do, one he planned to finish as quickly as possible so he could come home to Q.

* * *

_One o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday in London._

The roads were as clear as they ever were. It had just stopped raining, though the sky was still grey with the promise of more, and puddles dotted the roads and sidewalks alike.

Q walked, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders around his ears to make the most of his scarf. He had a free hour: his security check was still running, but he didn’t have to be in Q Division, or even in the building, to monitor its progress. Any alerts would come through to his mobile. In the meantime, he intended to grab himself a fresh pastry—not the stale rocks that masqueraded as treats in the MI6 cafeteria—and a freshly brewed pot of tea. He thought of Bond’s offer from earlier and smiled. How he wished he could have said yes, could have dropped everything and followed him to Venice, or anywhere at all. Q wouldn’t have to get a bite by himself.

Still, even with Bond gone, Q could have a little fun. There was a new place, an odd little café that had just opened—it didn’t have a sign, but Q had the vague notion that it was called Skylights. Q pictured himself sitting at one of the tables, drinking his tea and munching on something delicious. He could pretend, just for the moment, like he was the same as everyone else.

He wasn’t, but it was the principle of the thing.

The café came into view ahead of him, just across the street. Q walked briskly down the sidewalk toward it, sidestepping puddles and pedestrians alike, doing his best not to brush into anyone. When he came to the curb, Q checked both ways and stepped into the intersection.

His mobile beeped. Just as he pulled it back out of his pocket, there came a horrible screeching noise—tyres skidding across uneven road. There was a _crunch_ , the faint sound of sand skittering over itself, and a tinkling laugh like a bell.

* * *

**_MI6 Field Guide - Chapter VI - Hunting Risen_ **

**_Identify Risen._ ** _The first step in any operation is to identify the individual who has Risen. The previous identity of the Risen can be used to estimate the state of the Risen and the likely targets._

 

_Venice_

Bond walked the streets, crossing stone bridges over black, murky water and bypassing merchants hawking a variety of gaudy wares. _Basilica Cattedrale Patriarcale di San Marco_ loomed up ahead, though Bond hardly needed to see it to know he was headed in the right direction. No matter where one went, one always managed to end up there. All roads might lead to Rome, but in Venice, all bridges lead to Saint Mark’s Basilica.

Bond was looking for a home just past the Basilica. The latest on MI6’s radar was a Risen, previously a male in his early thirties with a blossoming career in the seedy underbelly of the city; career criminal, part-time dealer, full time playboy. That last part had gotten him into more trouble than anything else, and he’d turned up dead floating in one of the canals with several gunshot wounds. Locals claimed to have heard nothing, and the probable murderer, his girlfriend, had a corroborated alibi. Police hadn’t done much other than turn the body over to the morgue; no one was going to miss the man.

 

_Next, locate immediate family, murderer (if applicable), and close friends_. _Risen typically attack these individuals first, provided they are geographically close enough._

 

An MI6 agent stationed in Venice had reported this one twelve hours ago, and Bond had been dispatched to take care of it. Based on what the agent had dug up, this Risen had its roots in a lover’s quarrel. The thought made Bond sour. Over the course of his career, he’d met many curious creatures, but none matched those vengeful souls with passion in their hearts and murder on their minds—or, what was left of those organs.

According to the agent, who’d already done as much legwork as could be done outside of the double-0 programme, the Risen in question had cheated on his lover and paid the price. It had already found its own family—the agent had sent pictures; a grisly scene, even by Bond’s gory metrics—and now was likely after its murderer and her family. The agent reported that the next likely target was the girlfriend with the alibi, a sallow-faced and “rather insidious character”. It hardly mattered to Bond whether she was likable; he was going to ensure that the thing that however vaguely resembled her now ex-lover didn’t come calling for revenge.

The woman’s house was situated on the other side of the Basilica, on the west side of the city. It was getting late, and Bond expected to find her home. With any luck, he could take care of the Risen in one night and be back on a plane before the sun rose again.

Bond weaved in and out of the dwindling crowds as he crossed the plaza and headed for the address he’d been given. The Risen didn’t tend to hunt until about half an hour past sundown. Bond didn’t suppose this one would rise early, what with the glint of the sun off of the water.

He rang at the door, wondering if he needed to commandeer a boat to go around to the other side of the building to get her attention. A loud “ _aspetti un momento_ ” told him to stay put.

The door opened, and a woman glared at him from the relative darkness of the inside. Bond could hardly see past her.

“Who are you?” she asked, speaking Italian.

“Police,” Bond said, smiling as if to indicate a joke. The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Are you Giovanna Esposito?”

She didn’t answer right away, though it hardly mattered. Bond knew her from the dossier and the agent’s description. “Sallow” was one word for her countenance; “unpleasant” was another.

“You don’t look like any police,” she said rapidly, making to shut the door.

“Wait, please,” Bond said, but the door closed in his face and he heard the click of the lock.

Perfect. Based on location, the door Giovanna had just locked was the only Risen-accessible entrance. The other was on the water. Risen couldn’t pilot boats, so that was out of the question.

All Bond needed to do was wait. He settled into the shadows across the street and willed himself into stillness.

 

_Wait at the probable site of attack throughout the evening. Attempting to find Risen during the day will prove futile, as Risen tend to take refuge under bridges and in areas of minimal foot traffic during those times. They will only begin to move near nightfall._

 

The MI6 Field Guide had an entire chapter dedicated to the hunting of Risen, but nothing quite compared to real experience. The double-0 training programme was, as a result, largely hands-on, though training was only conducted with Undead Risen. Necromancers on staff raised them, and prospective double-0 agents spent many long nights practicing.

 

_Provided the target is one of the Vengeful Risen, the Risen should prove easy to locate before it makes its mark. If not, the Risen in question may be one of the Undead Risen. If so, the necromancer in question must be sought. Necromancers are most often friends, relatives, or known enemies (see: Chapter VII - Hunting Necromancers)._

 

All of that training was necessary but not sufficient to earn the license to hunt. To do so, one had to take down two in the field. No safety nets, no way for a conveniently located and friendly necromancer to order a bloodthirsty Risen down after an accidental slip-up.

Bond had taken out two by himself on his first outing to earn his stripes as 007. Since then, his record had grown as long as it was impressive. He’d put more Risen back in the ground than any other current double-0 agent.

 

_Most Risen can be killed by a shot to the brain or spinal region. In Risen where these areas are already damaged, gunshots to the torsional area can be effective. In the event that ammunition is unavailable, attacks with a knife or blunt object to the facial, torsional, and joints of Risen can incapacitate if not kill. This approach is not recommended due to the possibility of infection and disease from close contact with a Risen. Risen are close-quarters hunters and will attempt to attack with nails and teeth. Keeping a solid distance between yourself and the Risen is the key to any successful encounter._

_All Risen are vulnerable to fire._

 

Keeping his eyes fixed on the street, Bond began to regulate his breathing. He started with the standard seven in and seven out, then slowly went to eight, then nine. He had three guns, two knives, one vial of methanol, and a lighter from Q’s kit, all concealed on his person. As soon as the Risen showed itself, Bond would have no problems taking it down.

About an hour past sundown, Bond heard it. The street was deserted, and over the _lap_ of the water in the canals nearby, Bond could make out the _swish_ of fabric and the horrible clicks and groans he’d come to associate with the walking dead.

The woman staring at him as she stood in Giovanna’s doorway directly just across the street was just as good of an indicator.

**_Do not engage._ **

Bond watched his mark come into view as he carefully extracted the first of his guns, a Walther from his jacket. The thing moved quickly, if not gracefully. It was on hands and knees—or, what was left of those—scrabbling over loose cobblestones.

As it got closer, Bond could see that its limbs were already failing—it was shambling more than crawling. Pushing itself too hard, no doubt, eager to kill its own killer. The corpse had been water-logged and bloated when it had been fished out of the canals, and from the smell, it hadn’t fully dried. Now, the thing was like wet _papier mâché_ , slimy and falling to pieces even as it sought its next victim.

Bond took aim and fired.

The first three shots brought it to a halt. It rose up on its knees, flailing. Bond saw the rancid remnants of flesh clinging to the skull, and the holes where its eyes had once been. Its mouth hung open in a parody of a scream. Bond approached, wary. This was when things generally got ugly.

The thing lunged, faster now, throwing itself at Bond. Bond drew backwards and toward Giovanna’s door to get out of the way. He made to aim again, but the thing rolled, then righted itself, shaking its head, and threw itself again. Bond dodged, but barely.

The woman clicked, black hair _swish_ ing from side to side.

The thing came at Bond one more time, but rather than move aside, Bond took aim and fired one, two, _three_ —

There. On that last shot, Bond caught it right in the sweet spot, hitting the medulla and severing the spine. The thing fell, well and truly dead, mere millimeters from Bond’s outstretched hands. He pulled them back, together with the Walther and its empty clip, to avoid touching the thing. Gingerly, he replaced the weapon in its holster.

“That was close.”

Bond shivered as the words were spoken into his ear from behind. The woman had come close while he hadn’t been watching.

“Are you finally losing your touch?”

Bond stepped away without turning. He tucked the Walther back into the pocket of his jacket.

When he finally did turn around, the woman was still there, staring, smiling. Her eyes were dark, and her smile was sharp.

**_DO NOT ENGAGE_.**

“Hello, Vesper,” Bond said.

The woman was not Vesper, not really, but it hardly mattered. They had crossed paths before. Bond was quite sure she was the reason no one had come into the street or at least opened a window, curious about the gunshots and noise.

“James Bond,” Vesper said. The ends of her hair disappeared into the dark of the night. Now that Bond looked at her properly, he could see the waterlogged red dress, the way the canal water ran in rivulets down her legs. She’d lost her shoes somewhere.

“One of yours, then?” Bond asked, breaking the silence. He gestured at the rotting pile of flesh that had once been a Risen and was now no more than a corpse out of its grave.

“Was,” Vesper said. She shifted her weight to her right leg, then back. “Good shot.”

“Didn’t you just say I was losing my touch?” Bond teased.

That smile came back. In the poor light, with that soft look on her face, she almost looked human.

“It’s a shame,” she said.

“What is?” Bond asked.

“We see so much of each other,” Vesper said, “but you never let me…”

She reached out as if to touch Bond’s face. Bond drew back as if scalded. Her smile widened and went cold.

“Every time,” she said, “you walk away every time.”

“Better than laying down,” Bond said. The teasing words were undermined by his flat tone. This was familiar but dangerous territory.

“You still haven’t replaced me, then.”

“You could never be replaced,” Bond said. He felt the softness creeping into his tone. He’d loved Vesper, but she was dead, and the thing that stood before him now, neither living nor dead, not anything he understood—that was not Vesper.

Still.

“But there’s someone.”

“There’s always someone,” Bond said. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly, but to phrase it as that felt wrong. Q was more than that. The image of his lover rose to mind: dark hair, curly and short; the hands of a pianist put to work building weapons. Bad puns and a young man’s fashion sense; bergamot and citrus and lavender and gunpowder. A kit and a warning, a blush and a smile.

He’d nearly asked Q to marry him the night before. Q hadn’t noticed his hesitation, though Bond had thought it obvious. If anyone had known to ask why he hadn’t proposed yet, he would have liked to have shown them what he saw now: a creature more air and water than flesh, still haunting him, trailing him like his own shadow. Some people deserved more than that.

Vesper tilted her head. “For now,” she said. “But, I wonder, will you still think so when you get _home_?”

The way she emphasized that last word, _home_ , had Bond at a loss for words. Vesper turned to head down the street, away from the Basilica. Her hair seemed to grow longer and darker, and when she spoke again, her voice was distorted—no longer Vesper, not exactly. Bond remembered the codename for this thing as well as any operative but refused to use it. He didn’t believe it, though he had been given every reason to.

“I wonder how you’ll look when you come to me,” she—someone, some _thing_ unnameable—said. “Your face awash in tears, perhaps? Or grim and stoic?”

She turned her head to look back at Bond. He caught a glimpse of dead eyes and bared teeth. Before he’d thought it through, he’d pulled his second Walther.

Vesper—that being—laughed, a sound like a tinkling bell, and then was gone, blood and water on thirsty cobblestones in the dark. Bond stared until he could no longer recall exactly who he was searching for.

The _what_ was glaringly obvious.

Giovanna’s door opened. Her eyes were wide with fear, and when she caught sight of the dead thing not two meters from her door, she screamed.

Bond neatly tucked his Walther back in his jacket and pulled at his cuffs until they sat right again. Sunrise was still hours away, but then he’d be back in England, away from this terrible place. He could see Q already, running the floor, or maybe in his own office across the Thames, that quiet place that so often held just Bond and Q.

* * *

Tanner waited for Bond on the tarmac when the small plane MI6 used for these sorts of operations landed on British soil once more. That was how Bond knew he was about to hear something he would rather not hear.

“007,” Tanner started as Bond climbed out.

“Who died?” Bond joked.

Tanner’s face went white, and Bond wished he could take back the last ten seconds.

* * *

“When?” Bond asked.

“About twelve hours ago,” Tanner said, eyes on the road. He gripped the steering wheel too tightly. He would have a terrible cramp in his shoulders unless he loosened up, but Bond didn’t say so much. “He was pronounced at the scene. They took him to Chelsea and Westminster, but there was nothing to do. I know you liked him.”

Liked. Such a terrible word, like _nice_. Q had hated that word.

Bond had—

Q was dead.

Bond felt like a stone in the passenger seat. Tanner shifted gears, driving too fast, swerving erratically as he moved through traffic.

“M wants to debrief right away—he has to write the obit after, and Q Division is a right mess. No one saw it coming.”

Of course they hadn’t. It was a car accident, one of those unfortunate things that happened time and again. Nothing special.

Except. Most car accidents didn’t result in casualties. Most car accidents didn’t end with the Quartermaster of MI6, the lynchpin of one of the most important sectors the service had to offer, dead on the pavement.

“The others,” Bond said. Tanner had mentioned others.

“Police haven’t released names,” Tanner said.

Bond waited. There was no way Tanner didn’t know who they were. Dead or not, the driver had inadvertently (or deliberately, possibly) killed Q. MI6 would want to investigate anyone and everyone involved on the off chance it represented a strike not against Q but against MI6 as a whole.

“No one you know,” Tanner said, voice sour. “Andrew Borden, Monique Cross, and a kid. Borden was a single parent; Cross was an American visiting London on holiday. We’re working to find a link between the two. As far as I know, no one’s come to claim either body.”

“And the child?”

“James Borden, the son. He’s still alive, but barely.”

Bond found there wasn’t much to say after that. Tanner’s foot didn’t leave the gas until they were parked in the garage at headquarters.

* * *

Nothing seemed any different.

Bond hadn’t expected any public show of grief, but it’s absence jarred him. He didn’t pass by Q Division—it wasn’t on the way up to Mallory’s office—though he expected that they, too, would be functioning as usual. The show had to go on.

Q was dead.

Bond felt as if he’d been put on autopilot. He moved without too much thought. Something was missing—something important. In some distant part of his mind, he knew that he’d felt this way a long time ago. Had it been when he was a child, when his parents had died? No, too far back—he could hardly remember. It had been more recent…

Mallory’s office appeared before him. Before that was Moneypenny’s desk. She stood as he approached.

“He’s waiting for you,” Moneypenny said. Bond nodded at her and veered toward the office. “Bond.”

Bond stopped.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Come in, 007,” Mallory called from within his office, taking Bond’s sudden stop as hesitation, waiting for permission to enter. He’d needed that from someone before, but it had never been Mallory. Bond took the invitation anyway and stepped into the office, shutting the door behind him.

“Sit down,” Mallory said. He slouched in his chair, watching Bond with tired eyes. Bond sat carefully— _primly_ , that’s how M had once described it. As if he were posing for a picture.

“I’m sure Tanner told you,” Mallory said, “about Q.”

“He did, sir,” Bond said.

“Did he tell you who your new Quartermaster is?”

“No, sir.”

“Afanen Argall been selected,” Mallory said. “She’ll be working with you from here on out.”

Argall? Bond knew her, to be sure. Tall for a woman, judgmental and quiet. Not long after Bond made it as a double-0, MI6 had opened an investigation into her actions following the death of Loelia Ponsonby, the head of the double-0 section and Argall’s mother. The investigation had been covered up soon after, and Argall had continued to work in the then Q Branch. Bond had known that Argall was Q’s second, but given her history, he had expected Mallory to pick someone else.

“Will she be running Q Division as well?”

“Naturally,” Mallory said. “There’s no one else. Past grievances aside, Q believed she was right for the job, and, to be frank, the others weren’t lining up to take the position.”

Bond couldn’t imagine Argall running the floor downstairs. She wasn’t Q, Q was—

Bond didn’t allow that train of thought to pass. Whatever his thoughts on the matter, they were irrelevant to the task at hand. One thing at a time. Currently: mission report.

“Of course,” Bond said. After a pause, he said, “Venice has been taken care of. Risen was confirmed and eliminated.”

“That’s the third incident this week in mainland Europe alone,” Mallory said, fiddling with a pen on his desk. “It’s getting harder to keep this in the dark.”

Bond kept his mouth shut. Keeping information about the Risen contained to the leaders of just a handful of countries hardly seemed like the best tactic to him, but he wasn’t in charge.

“Did you see it?” Mallory asked.

Bond didn’t have to ask for clarification of what _it_ meant.

“Yes,” Bond said. “I saw Death.”

Mallory looked up sharply. “And?”

“And?” Bond echoed.

“007, you are the only agent who has failed to identify this creature as anything other than Death.”

“It didn’t take a form I knew,” Bond said. “It never has.”

“What did it look like?”

Bond hesitated. His memories felt like wisps, thin tendrils of smoke, or maybe water. Telling Mallory so much felt like suicide.

“Nothing in particular, sir.”

Mallory stared at him, openly suspicious.

“Do you think this a joke, 007?”

“No, sir.”

“You do understand that 0014 has been grounded for the next four months because of what that thing’s done to his mind.” Bond had heard. Word travelled quickly around the double-0 section. Mallory knew that. “Then why don’t you—”

A knock came at Mallory’s door; Moneypenny opened it and peered inside.

“Sir, the hospital’s calling about Q’s remains again,” she said.

“Calling here?” Bond asked.

“He put our number in his emergency contacts as family,” Moneypenny said. “They want to talk to next of kin about what to do with the body.”

Mallory cursed under his breath. “Send someone out,” he snapped. “Make sure they’re appropriately informed.”

“I’ll go.” The words fell out of Bond’s mouth before he could recall them.

“007—”

“He’s at Chelsea and Westminster, isn’t he?” Bond asked, remembering what Tanner had told him. “I’ll handle the arrangements.”

Mallory’s suspicious gaze seemed to morph into something else—equally suspicious, but now curious.

“Very well,” he said. Moneypenny looked between them, unsure. Bond made to stand. “And Bond,” he said. “Report to Medical when you return.”

“Yes, sir,” Bond murmured. He pushed past Moneypenny on his way out of the office.

Within moments, she was by his side, walking quickly to keep up.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Going to see about a dead man. Tell Medical I won’t be stopping by. What name was Q under?”

To each other, they had always been Q and 007—or, when Q had been particularly exasperated with him, Q and _damn it, Bond_.

“His real one. Bond—” Moneypenny cut herself off with a sigh. “The hospital has him under Elliott Hawthorne.”

Bond reached the lifts and boarded one as Moneypenny stood outside, arms folded across her chest.

“This is bad,” she said. “You’ve just gotten back.”

“Take care,” Bond murmured.

* * *

In Bond’s opinion, the façade of Chelsea and Westminster Hospital could only be termed hideous, even in the dark. It seemed wrong that someone would be brought there, even if they were already dead upon arrival.

Bond crossed Fulham Road to the front doors. Inside, a quick explanation saw him whisked away to the hospital morgue. The hospital itself was bright and clean. The doctor, Bond found, was much the same.

“Mr. Bond, is it?” she asked, removing a pair of soaked nitrile gloves. She’d just stepped out of a room. Bond could hear someone groaning through the door and remembered why he hated hospitals. “I’m Dr. Montes, the physician who saw Elliott when he came in. I understand that you’re a colleague from work?”

“Yes,” Bond said. “We were friends.”

“You have my condolences,” Dr. Montes said, inclining her head. “Have you gone through this process before? Taking charge of the deceased is no small task.”

Bond gave his best attempt at a weak smile. “I’ve done this before,” he said, “with my family. Elliot was important to me. I’ll handle the arrangements.”

Dr. Montes reciprocated with a smile of her own. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “It’s most always a sad state of affairs, when people come in with no next of kin and no one to take charge. We do what we can, but…” Dr. Montes trailed off. “First things first, I’ll need you to identify him. Do you think you could do that?”

“Yes,” Bond said. He could see Q as clearly as he could see the doctor. “I can.”

Dr. Montes led Bond through the hospital and to the morgue. It was slightly colder down there, and Bond felt the chill through his jacket. Q would have wanted a sweater—he lately favoured the one he’d left at Bond’s flat that morning, with the horrible mismatched stripes. Bond should have brought it with him.

The absurdity of the notion hit him full in the face just as Dr. Montes prepared to roll Q out.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “If it’s too much—”

“No,” Bond said, working to save face, “it isn’t.” He hadn’t thought she had noticed his slight misstep, how he tensed all of a sudden at the thought of Q, cold and dead and surrounded by people who could never know who he was or what he had accomplished. “I was thinking that he deserved to have family here and not just me.”

Dr. Montes smiled, an attempt at reassurance. “I’m sure he would be grateful that you’ve come,” she said. She opened Q’s cold chamber, and the stench of preservatives filled the air. Dr. Montes pulled back the sheet, and Bond stepped forward.

Q’s face looked pale and wrong— _dead_ , Bond’s mind helpfully supplied. Q was dead.

Bond allowed his gaze to linger before he said anything. Dr. Montes had only pulled the sheet down to Q’s neck, keeping the rest of him covered. Even so, Bond could see the unnatural dips. He swallowed.

“It’s him,” Bond said. “That’s Elliott.”

Dr. Montes pulled the sheet back over Q’s face and rolled him back into the cold chamber. They began the walk back up to the main hospital, where she handed Bond a small stack of papers and a handful of personal effects—Q’s keys, wallet, phone.

“This is the paperwork to register his death,” Dr. Montes said. “Grief and counseling services are available for anyone who might need it. Do you know if he made plans to rent or if he has a family plot that can be used, or will you be cremating? Of course, if it’s too soon, we can keep him here for a while longer.”

Several possibilities ran through Bond’s mind in a split second. Q would likely have wanted to be cremated—clean, modern, easy. M had been cremated, though a headstone had been erected in a cemetery nonetheless. It felt wrong to do without Q’s explicit instructions, though. Bond had bought back Skyfall; he could bury him there, with his parents. _Too gaudy_. Q would have hated it. _Bond_ would have hated it.

“How long can you keep him here?” Bond asked.

“A few days,” Dr. Montes said. “Best to get it over with quickly.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Bond said. “I’ll know by then.”

“The receptionist will be able to take care of it, but if you come back after three, I’ll be here. You’re doing a good thing,” Dr. Montes said. “Take care, Mr. Bond.”

* * *

It had been dark when Bond arrived at Chelsea and Westminster, but it was darker still when he left. The cold of the morgue had settled in the seams of his jacket and the insides of his trousers like permafrost. The streets felt emptier, and people seemed to walk faster. No one so much as glanced at him.

Bond knew that he was projecting. It didn’t make it any better.

He had made a massive mistake. He drove home with that knowledge looping in his head like a damaged record. He had made a massive mistake. _He had made a massive mistake._ He had—

* * *

In the relative safety of his flat, Bond drank too much too quickly. He didn’t even bother undressing. He just sat on the overlarge sofa in the sad excuse for a living room he’d thrown together after he’d been declared dead and his belongings had been sold and tossed back drinks.

“Such a sad state of affairs,” Bond heard, or thought he did. It was difficult to tell with the room spinning. “You didn’t even know his name and you’re already a wreck.”

_I know that voice_ , Bond thought distantly, but the room had grown darker and the sofa felt warm and inviting. Something pressed against his temple, but he knew he was alone. It was his imagination. Every sensation felt dampened and numbed. He slipped off to sleep, his glass tumbling to the ground.


	2. Act II

When Bond woke, it was with a crippling headache and the need to brush his teeth four times. He looked like death—not Death, though what faced Bond in the mirror was more of what he expected Death to look like, too. He put drops in his eyes to try to reduce the redness, scrubbed at his skin, and forced himself to put on something respectable before heading out to grab something to eat.

At a café just a few blocks away, Bond got himself coffee and a little something, toast and eggs. Someone had left behind a local newspaper, its sheets in disarray. More to clear space than anything else, Bond made to fold them up neatly into a pile, but an article caught his attention.

 

_LOCAL NEWS: THREE DEAD IN FREAK ACCIDENT_

_THREE are dead and one injured in a freak accident on Beaufort Street._

_A driver lost control of a speeding vehicle yesterday, striking and killing a pedestrian. Both the driver and the pedestrian, as well as the passenger, were killed upon impact. Local police have yet to release the names of the deceased._

_A child, also unidentified, was taken to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. Officials say the child remains in critical condition but is expected to recover._

 

“More coffee?”

Bond startled at the voice of the waitress. He found he couldn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the brief article.

“Won’t do you any good to stare at that,” the waitress said— _no_.

Bond looked up at the waitress—not the waitress, not anymore— _Vesper_. The uniform fit poorly on her and smelled like brine and filth. Her wet hair dripped into his coffee.

“Why are you here?” Bond asked, lowering his voice. He looked about, sure there had to be a Risen somewhere, but he saw no telltale signs. He hadn’t been contacted about a new operation, and besides, he had a funeral to plan—

_Q_.

He remembered there had been something important—Vesper had told him something important about this. As he looked at her, though, standing there with those dark eyes and bright lips, his mind felt empty. Something was missing.

“Just came to check in on my favourite,” Vesper said, leaning against the counter. “Don’t worry. They can’t see me.”

Bond’s eyes flickered around the café. No one paid the dead woman in front of him the slightest attention. Water ran down her arms and pooled on the counter where Bond sat. He instinctively leaned away.

“You went for the grim and stoic route,” Vesper said, tilting her head to one side. “I wonder how long it will last.”

Those words jogged something in Bond’s memories. They had talked about this—or, more accurately, Vesper had mentioned this.

“You killed him,” Bond said.

“Oh, no,” Vesper said, eyes widening. “I would never. I can’t.”

“You did. You told me—” Bond started, _What had she told him?_ He couldn’t quite remember.

“You don’t know, do you?” Vesper asked, eyes sad. “You always forget. It hurts.” She pursed her lips, then said, “You said _there’s always someone_ , and I merely said that that might change when you got home. Has it? Has this finally been the thing to break you?” She smiled then, straightening up. “You didn’t even know his name until yesterday and you’re a walking disaster. Chin up,” Vesper said. “There’s always another option.

“More coffee?”

Bond blinked and found himself staring at the waitress again. She had red hair—Bond noticed that. Her name tag said Fields.

“No,” he forced himself to say, taking a drink. It tasted like salt and something acrid, and he slammed it back down. “Actually, excuse me, I take that back— May I have another cup?”

The waitress frowned; she’d already started moving away. She cleared the cup and glared at the counter. Bond saw that he’d managed to knock a glass of water over. The paper was soaked, as were Bond’s trousers.

“I’ve got that,” Bond said, muttering an apology, though he could see the waitress had no intention of cleaning up the spill. He snagged several paper napkins and did his best to mop up the mess. The paper was a lost cause, though; he tossed it along with the soaked napkins. By the time he’d finished, his food was out and he had a mug of fresh, hot coffee.

Miraculously, his headache was gone.

As Bond sat to eat, he came up with a mental list. He needed to plan Q’s funeral. That meant he needed to register his death, find his will and executor, and probably spend more money than he’d been strictly planning for.

To make all of that run smoothly, he needed to get himself grounded. A poorly-timed operation would make his efforts impossible.

A visit to MI6 headquarters had to come first, then. He’d need to talk to Mallory. He’d head to the cemetery where M’s headstone was, see if there was any space. After, he’d see if Q’s office was yet untouched (probably) and go hunting for personal effects. From there, he needed to find Q’s flat, then his will. If Q wanted to be cremated, then so be it. Otherwise, Bond would proceed with the funeral.

Finished, Bond stood, making to leave. He gazed across the windows and the streets outside, then did a double take. He could have sworn he’d seen Q. Another look told him otherwise.

Bond moved just a little faster, throwing down enough to cover the bill and tip.

* * *

“No.”

“There’s no one else,” Bond argued.

“ _No._ ”

Bond stared at Mallory. Mallory stared back.

“That’s my final answer, 007,” Mallory said. “Our resources are spread as thin as they can be without complete collapse. Do you know how many reports have come in? There have been six _within the past hour_. I’m shipping you out tonight.”

“No, you aren’t,” Bond said.

Mallory slammed a hand down on the desk. Bond didn’t jump, just stared at his supervisor with a blank expression. If Mallory had been looking to scare him into line, it had failed spectacularly.

“You’re the best we have,” Mallory said. “You’re the only one who hasn’t cracked meeting Death, the only one with a perfect kill rate. We need you in the field.”

Bond held firm.

Mallory sighed and slumped in his chair. He looked entirely exhausted. Too much caffeine and too little sleep. M had never let anything get so far out of control.

“If I continue to say no, you’re just going to go off on your own, aren’t you?” Mallory said, humorless and matter-of-fact. It was not a question, and Bond didn’t treat it as one.

Mallory looked at the ceiling. “I’ll give you a week _at maximum_ ,” he said, emphasizing those last two words. Bond already sat straight up in his seat, but he now paid Mallory full attention. “I expect you to get this taken care of. Make sure the body is burned.”

Bond frowned. “I’m not having him cremated.”

“What.”

“I’m not having him cremated.”

Mallory blinked at him.

“Does he have a family plot?” he asked. “Are you going to rent a grave?”

“If I have to,” Bond said.

“Where?”

“Does it matter?”

Mallory sighed, running a hand over his face. “The dead are walking, Bond. Of course it matters.”

“Madison’s,” Bond said.

“Where they buried Mansfield,” Mallory said. Bond bristled— _M_. They didn’t say her name. “I think they’ve spots, but—Christ, Bond.” He shut his eyes and leaned back. “Two weeks,” he said. “Make sure he’s buried with all of the appropriate wards.”

Bond stared at Mallory. “Do you think someone will attempt to raise him, sir?” he asked.

“The dead are walking, Bond,” he repeated. “We’ve had more incidents than we can adequately manage, and the best Quartermaster we’ve had in the history of this institution just ended up roadkill. I’m not taking any chances.” He sat back in his seat, watching Bond with resigned eyes. “You’re dismissed, 007.”

Bond stood and inclined his head—one of the only deferential gestures he would show Mallory. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Mallory said, sinking into his chair. Already his attention had shifted to the phone on his desk—four lights blinked at once. Bond turned his back on his superior and headed out of the office.

As he had expected, Moneypenny waited for him outside.

“Well?” she asked. Bond smiled, though barely. “Bond.” She laid a hand on his arm. Bond resisted the urge to pull it away. Behind him, Mallory had just gotten on the phone with someone or other. Based on the look on Mallory’s face, it wasn’t any good.

“What do you need?” Moneypenny asked.

“Nothing,” Bond said, too quickly.

Her grip tightened. “James Bond,” she said. “You answer me honestly. Were you and Q…?”

Bond could see Q sprawled in bed, taking up more space than he had any right to with those gangly limbs. (Bond liked to leave kisses along each one. Q writhed at his attentions.) He could see Q feeding his cats in the morning, brewing tea, writing a few quick fixes from his laptop at home as he showed Bond what he was working on.

“I’ll be going by his flat later today,” Bond said in lieu of answer, “to check on the cats.”

Moneypenny smiled tightly. She understood. “Do you want company?”

“No,” Bond said.

She nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I heard you talking to M—you’re having a service for him? I’d like to come.”

“Of course,” Bond said. “He would like that.”

Moneypenny nodded again. She straightened Bond’s lapels and took a step back.

“He cared about you too, you know?” she said. Bond could tell she wanted to say something else, but the words stuck in her throat. Q and Moneypenny had been friends for longer than Bond had known either of them.

“Have a good afternoon, Eve.”

* * *

As Bond had expected, there was space at Madison’s. It was an oddity for being just outside of the city, but the woman Bond spoke to showed him the exact spot Q would have. It was three rows and seven spaces from M’s headstone.

“I’ll take it,” Bond said.

In one hundred years, someone would be buried in the same spot. Bond thought Q would forgive him that. They would both be dead then, anyway.

* * *

Q had become a little nervous with his own inventions at MI6 over time, so he’d set up a lab of his own. Bond had helped negotiate the transfer of Q’s belongings off-site, carrying crates of explosives while Q watched with fond eyes. Nominally, everything Q did happened in Q Division, but the reality of the situation was rather different.

Bond found himself standing in front of a door accessible only by motorboat from the Thames. He’d come many times since they’d fallen in with each other. Q’s office and the adjoining labs were one of the few places outside their flats where Q permitted demonstrations of Bond’s affection. Bond had spent days here, too, recuperating after rough operations. He’d sit across from Q at his desk with a drink, listening to Q work and talk. It had been like heaven.

Bond punched in his access code, written in for him by Q early on, and watched the light turn green. He opened the doors and stepped inside. Bond felt along the wall until his fingers brushed the light switch. He flicked it, and they stuttered as they came to life.

The workspace was, as Bond had already known, empty. The silence of Q Division had nothing on this. His footsteps echoed in against the cement floors, and the lights hummed gently, but that was it. It was cold—last time he’d been here, it had been warmer. Q had been there, sitting at his desk, waiting. He’d smiled at Bond, and cracked a terrible joke at his expense. Bond had kissed the mock cruelty from his lips, drinking him in. They had been happy.

That had been the day before Venice. By the end of the visit, Bond’s jacket had been rumpled beyond recognition and Q’s hair had been through a tornado of fingers grasping and tugging and threading. Now, Q’s chair sat empty, and his workstation remained untouched. His laptop was still open, its screen dark. Bond ran a hand over the corner of the desk. Not yet dusty, but there was time. Mallory had access here; until he officially transferred it over to MI6, something he’d likely do sooner rather than later, it would sit empty.

Q had prided himself on the security of his labs and had left minimal security inside. Most everything, Bond knew from experience, was unlocked and easily accessible. Bond went to the other side of Q’s desk and began pulling at drawers to check the contents. He didn’t sit in Q’s chair; to do so seemed like the wrong thing to do. He found many things as he searched: designs for new equipment, including one that had 007 written in large print and underlined—a rocket launcher, by the looks of things. There were odd pieces of metal, parts to something that only Q could identify.

There were also lots of weapons: rifles and handguns, a few grenades and something that looked suspiciously like the barrel of a tank. Bond hadn’t seen any of them before. Q must have gotten them out after he’d left.

Bond leaned over Q’s desk to get a better look at one and accidentally bumped it. The screen of his laptop lit up.

_Security check failed_

_Breach ID: 528491_

Bond frowned at the screen. There was a box below the error, a flashing horizontal bar indicating that something was meant to be input, but Bond had no idea what protocols Q had programmed. Bond remembered that Q had been checking on a prospective breach. Did Mallory know that Q had a positive result?

_Make sure he’s buried with all of the appropriate wards_. That’s what Mallory had said, like he anticipated that Q would rise, either of his own accord or someone else’s.

Bond moved away from the laptop, leaving the screen open and glowing. He walked the length of that first room, eyeing the shelves full of equipment, more guns and more plans and more, more, more. Q had never stopped innovating, never stopped planning.

He still had Q’s things—his personal effects: his keys, his wallet, and his mobile—in his pocket from his trip to the hospital yesterday. In Q’s office, he took them out.

Q’s keyring had only four keys, three gold and one silver. Bond knew all of them—Q flat, Bond’s flat, MI6 labs (for use only during override) and his parents home, sold years ago. Q’s wallet was nearly empty. One credit card, no debit, barely any hard money. Tucked inside was a well-worn handwritten copy of Bond’s address and a card for a J. M. Duran embossed in silver on pale card stock. The number on the back wasn’t British—French, by the looks of it. Q’s mobile, as Bond had suspected, was locked. It would be an easy enough thing to open it, but it felt wrong, much like sitting in Q’s chair.

No sooner had Bond thought so much than the lights went out.

Bond didn’t move. As far as he could hear, nothing else did, either. Bond’s breathing quickened together with his pulse, and he did a rapid mental survey. Unknown threat, weapons readily available, no potential civilian casualties.

Bond spun so that he faced as much of the lab as possible and tried to see through the darkness. The screen of Q’s laptop still burned a bright blue. Everything else was pitch black.

“007.”

The words, crisp and clear and _so close,_ stopped just as soon as they started. Bond reached for where he knew the nearest shelf to be to grab a weapon and came up empty.

That had been Q’s voice.

“Show yourself,” Bond ordered.

“There’s nothing to show,” another voice said. _Vesper_. “Getting sentimental over a mobile, now?”

“Why are you here?” Bond asked, peering through the dark. He couldn’t see a single thing, and he didn’t trust himself to take a step. He felt as if he’d been set in an island of darkness with only that damned laptop to light a distant wall of the room.

“Because you are,” Vesper said. She spoke in that nonchalant way she’d always favoured. It struck Bond that something he’d seen recently reminded him of her—what was it? “Can’t have you wandering around alone. Who knows what you might find.”

“Worried?” Bond asked.

“For you,” Vesper said, right next to his ear. Bond lashed out on instinct, making to attack. He hit _something_ , his fingers brushing through what felt like spider webs and cold. He recoiled as if burned.

Beside him—maybe a little farther away now—Vesper laughed.

“Oh, James,” she said, drawing out each of the sounds in his name, “always so dramatic. I’m not looking to hurt you. I’m trying to help.”

“What is it you want?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Vesper said. “It’s what _you_ want that matters.”

“And what might that be?”

The lights switched on. Bond took in a deep breath, blinked, and found himself facing a corner.

“007?”

Bond spun, ready to fight.

Tanner, Moneypenny, and Argall stood in the door to Q’s labs, shock written across each of their faces. Bond only belatedly realized why.

Bond had a Walther pointed squarely at Tanner’s forehead.

Bond exhaled, letting the weapon drop to his side. He tried to remember when he’d picked it up, when he’d stepped into the corner. There had been something—

“Everything all right?” Argall asked, stepping forward. Moneypenny put an arm on Argall’s shoulder and pulled her back. The two women exchanged a look.

“Of course,” Bond said, as if waiting in the dark with a gun were the most natural thing in the world. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

The three exchanged a look amongst them.

“It’s late,” Moneypenny said. “Q saw that you’d come here and hadn’t left. We wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Q?”

“Me,” Argall said. “I’m the new Quartermaster.”

Bond schooled his features to be neutral and stepped forward, mindful of the apprehensive looks Tanner gave him. Based on his body language, he hadn’t fully decided if he wanted to block Bond’s way, as if he could have.

“Of course,” Bond said. “Just wanted a few minutes down here.”

Moneypenny’s grip on Argall’s shoulder tightened as Argall said, “007, it’s been ten hours since you were logged as entering.”

Bond stared at the three standing before him. _Ten hours_?

“Well,” Bond said, his throat dry, “time got away from me.”

An uneasy silence fell over them. _Ten hours_.

“There’s something on his laptop,” Bond said. “A security check failure.”

“Right,” Tanner said. “We’ll—check on that.”

Bond stared at Tanner, then glanced at the two women. Each of them stared back.

“I’ll be going then,” Bond said. He pushed past the trio and headed to the door. Before he left, though, something made him slow down. He felt—they had no business being in Q’s labs.

“Before I do that,” Bond said, staring at the keypad that said _locked_ , “how did the three of you get in?”

“Administrator override,” Tanner said. “Q used MI6 funds, so M insisted on a keycard for himself.”

“Why is he not here, then?” Bond asked. Silence met him.

“He gave it to us,” Moneypenny said finally, “to check up on things and to start transferring equipment back on-site.”

“Right,” Bond said. He frowned at the door. _Right_. Without turning back to look at them, he continued to walk forward.

Just to be contrary, he hit the lights on the way out. He expected a yelp, or a _damn it, Bond_ , but he heard nothing more than a soft sigh and a skittering sound like rats in walls.

* * *

Q’s flat was located on the third storey of a nondescript building full of other MI6 personnel. Bond’s own ID card easily got him inside the building. He climbed the stairs slowly, looking at the doors to the nearby flats as he went up the stairwell. He wondered how many of them knew that Q was dead, that he’d even been there at all.

Bond had a key to Q’s flat. He’d never used it, if only because he’d always been met at the door or else had gone up with Q. Now, he slid it into the lock and turned it. The nearly invisible lights on both the lock and the key itself turned green, and the door _click_ ed as it unlocked.

Slowly, Bond turned the handle and stepped inside.

Q’s flat was a cheery place in the daytime. There were massive windows on the street side with gauzy white curtains that could serve no more than a decorative purpose. The furniture seemed to be arranged in such a way that invited company. There was a sofa and two chairs close together in what served as Q’s sitting area, and two barstools against a high counter in the kitchen in lieu of a conventional dinner table. Bond remembered Q sitting at one with a cup of tea, his nightshirt slipped off of one shoulder and his hair sticking up in all directions, as Bond stood at the range and cooked breakfast. Beyond that, Bond could make out the door to the bedroom.

Bond reached against the nearest wall and felt until he found the light switch. A lamp in the corner of the sitting area came on, illuminating most of the space. He switched on a light in the kitchen as well and then froze in place as he heard a soft _thunk_.

The clicks of claws against the uncarpeted floors told him it was the only cats, and when he turned, there they were.

Bond had always been more of a dog person, but Q’s cats were sociable and distinctive enough to easily tell apart. The one was a massive cat, bigger than any regular cat Bond had seen. It was grey and white, and it sniffed Bond tentatively as it approached, its tail flicking behind it as it recognized Bond. That was Aubergine.

The other held no such apprehensions. Smaller, chocolate coloured, and regularly sized if a bit lean, it came straight up to Bond and rubbed its head against his trousers, leaving them covered with a fine coating of hair. That was Anna.

Bond frowned down at the legs of his trousers, marked so carefully by Anna. _Lovely_. He glared down at the two cats, which hopped up onto the counter to get a better look at him, but he couldn’t be mad for long. It had been a long time since the two of them had seen Bond or Q—had seen anyone. No doubt they were lonely. Bond scratched Aubergine’s head when it was offered and looked about.

“Still don’t think you look like an aubergine,” he said, then realized that he’s just spoken to the cat as if it could understand. “Oh well.” He did scowl at that, then went rummaging through the cabinets looking for cat food. The cats _mreow_ ed at him as he did so, and continued to cry until Bond set out the fresh food and refilled their bowls with fresh water. At that, they hopped off of the counter and went to eat.

The cats taken care of, at least for the moment, Bond cast an eye over the sitting room and headed in toward Q’s bedroom. He hesitated on the threshold, running a hand over one wall as before to find the light.

Q’s bedroom was a simple affair. His bed was still unmade—Bond could see where Q had laid in it the last time he’d been home, the spot still rumpled in the shape of a human. Indentations in the duvet where the cats liked to sleep were equally obvious. Q had two side tables, one on each side of the bed, but Bond knew he only used the one. Each table had a lamp, but a spare pair of glasses, a mostly empty glass of water, and a tablet lay on one while the other had nothing. Last he’d been here, Bond had set his gun there, within reach should anyone break in. Q had convinced him to at least put the safety on lest he be startled in the middle of the night and shoot one of the cats. Bond had complied, and that was the last they’d thought about it as Q pushed him down onto the mattress.

A desk sat against the window, and Bond found himself drawn to it. The drawers weren’t locked, and Bond quickly located something interesting: a red envelope with a four digit code and a small key inside.

_Safe deposit box_ , Bond thought. He hadn’t seen one of those in a while—not in a bank, anyway, though the envelope seemed to indicate that Q’s box was at a Lloyd’s office. If Q’s will could be found anywhere, it would be there.

There were other things in the drawers, too, of course. Bond saw letters dating back to the early noughts addressed to Q—or, to Elliott Hawthorne. Several of them were in a flowing, cursive script that looked more like Arabic than English, though the others were legible enough.

Before he could get so much as a glance at any of them, though, the cats were back and demanding attention. Anna hopped up on Bond’s lap, staring at him, while Aubergine crawled up onto the bed, settling into its spot.

“Hello,” Bond said, smiling at the cat in his lap. Anna sniffed him, then began to knead his chest.

Bond deposited the cat back on the floor and stood. It stared at him, but as Bond looked to Aubergine, he noticed that something had drawn its attention—something by the door. Bond peered out into the joint kitchen and sitting area. Nothing.

Aubergine got up in a hurry, _mreow_ ing and keening. Anna followed quickly, and they went to the door, staring up at it.

Bond felt a chill go up his spine and reached for his gun.

He heard nothing, but the cats obviously did. They cried, standing out of the radius of the door, waiting for someone.

_For Q_ , Bond thought. But Q wasn’t coming home. Q was dead.

Bond gripped his gun a little tighter as the cats began to _mreow_ a little louder, a little more frantically. He walked slowly toward the door, staring at it. Was he imagining the door knob jiggling? Did he hallucinate how it shook from side to side?

Someone knocked three times.

Bond put an eye to the peephole and looked out.

Nothing.

Bond stepped back, looking down at the cats. They still stared at the door, though they’d fallen silent.

“No one,” Bond said. “I’m sorry.”

Anna and Aubergine remained where they were, uncomprehending. Bond laughed a little to himself. He’d completely lost track of time in Q’s labs, he was hallucinating noises, and now he was talking to cats. It was high time to go home and get some sleep.

He shut off the lights in the bedroom and sitting area before leaving with one last nod at Anna and Aubergine.

If the threshold to Q’s flat felt cold and clammy, Bond chalked it up to how it had felt inside—warm and comfortable and more like home than the flat to which Bond would be returning.

* * *

Bond awoke the next morning with a headache like a starburst behind one eye and six unread texts.

From Moneypenny, 0456: _Security breach was a no-go. We don’t know what Elliott was looking for._

The use of Q’s name in place of his title had Bond awake and snapping mad.

Another from Moneypenny, 0457: _Do you want help planning the service?_

Another, 0629: _If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know._

One from Tanner, around the same time: _Bond, is everything all right? You seemed odd yesterday. Let me know if you want to catch a drink later_.

Bit early to start planning drinks, even by Bond’s estimation. He ignored all four texts and turned to the remaining two, sent from an unknown number.

From 0300: _Blue Bridge, St. James Park, 1500_

Moments later: _Don’t be late._

Bond fixated on those two lines, staring at them until he went crosseyed. The number didn’t look familiar. Perhaps the instructions had been sent to the wrong person, though he seriously doubted it.

Bond set his mobile back on the side table and sat up a little higher in bed. His headache throbbed, and his eye twitched. He hadn’t had anything to drink the night before—not that he remembered, anyway. He’d come home from Q’s flat and collapsed, exhausted. He didn’t think he’d had a drink.

Hoisting himself out of bed and rubbing his face, Bond glared at the window to the street outside. Cloudy day—he’d gotten up later than he intended. He needed to make it to the bank, open the safe deposit box, retrieve the will, find the attorney, and get this process rolling. Mallory had given him two weeks, but time had been getting away from him lately.

_You don’t have to do this_.

The thought startled him, and Bond hunched in place. It felt wrong. Of course he would do this. No one had asked, but no one had to. It was Q, and he—

Before they’d started dating, Bond had dreamed of Q like he’d dreamed of lovers when he’d been in the Navy. He’d laid eyes on Q and it had been as if he’d been set aflame. He wanted to impress him, wanted to bring him in and hold him close and never let him go.

He’d had this fantasy, back before they’d started dating. The start of it was always fuzzy. While Bond had a reputation for seduction, he knew that he relied more on looks than on any particular finesse when it came to getting someone in his bed. With Q, he doubted looks would be enough. Besides that, he wasn’t getting any younger. The lines on his face and the grey in his beard when he didn’t shave religiously reminded him of this, as if the ache in his joints and the burn in his chest where he’d been shot off of that damned train weren’t enough.

But. The fantasy. Somehow, by some miracle, whether by the grace of some god or luck or charm, Q would agree to go out with him. They’d go out to dinner—somewhere nice. The exact location in Bond’s mind ever changed based on where he was stationed and what was in fashion. He’d order for the both of them, and they’d have a drink, and talk about themselves. Bond would be honest, for once. Q knew when he lied, one of the many reasons why Bond found himself drawn to him when he knew he ought to pull away. The age gap was too wide, the things they’d seen were too varied. There were so many reasons why Bond knew he shouldn’t—why he hadn’t pursued a relationship—but that didn’t make it any easier.

After they had a drink, Bond would take him home if Q permitted him. He’d kiss him, say good night, only stay if Q wanted him to.

(In his fantasy, Q always wanted him to stay.)

Since Bond hadn’t known what Q’s flat looked like at the time, most often in their little fantasy escapades they magically ended up at Bond’s. No doubt Q would be snarky over the décor, or lack thereof. Bond held no pretension to fashion, and he made no excuses. He’d been depressed, and busy, but now he had Q and everything was falling into place.

The one thing Bond hadn’t allowed himself was a vision of what would come after. It was one thing to pine after Q, but an entirely other thing to fantasize about what he might look like under those cardigans he liked so much. For one thing, Bond had a tendency to get lovers’ proportions wrong—guessing a waist to be wider than it actually was, or legs longer, or hands smaller. No one could know that, of course, and Bond had never been picky, but he wanted Q to be free of any preconceived notions of appearance. After all, he wasn’t like the lovers that had come before, those born of whimsy and chance and, from time to time, necessity. He was different.

Bond’s fantasy had played out in reality, more or less. It had taken time. Q had been reluctant, and understandably so, but in the end Bond had learned the topography of Q, the exact location of the divots in his hips and the space between his ribs and the width of his hands and the curve of his knees. On Q, Bond knew every vertebrae and knuckle better than he knew his own.

Q had learned Bond’s scars, too. He’d traced them with fingernails and teeth and lips. He’d been a greedy lover, matched only by Bond himself.

From there, Bond’s fantasies had taken a different turn. He had Q in his bed. He knew his body, but what of his mind?

Bond had wondered what Q saw in him, why he didn’t break it off. Q deserved someone better.

Bond dreamed of being better. He hadn’t bought a ring, but he had looked at them. In his fantasy, Q would say yes. They’d be married, together, happy.

Bond swallowed. Q was dead. He dreamed of a dead man who’d had MI6’s most dangerous agent wrapped around his finger. Bond would have done anything had Q asked. (He never did. Bond used to wish he would, sometimes. He would have moved heaven and earth to prove that he could, he would have done _anything_ —)

But. There was no time for dreams, not now. The possibility of anything more between him and Q had disappeared with the press of the accelerator.

Straightening himself out, Bond forced himself to think of the task at hand. Q needed a funeral. Bond needed to find the will. He got himself up and dressed.

If he decided to frequent a different café for breakfast that morning, that was his own business.

He wasn’t free from the articles, though.

 

_LOCAL NEWS UPDATE: ACCIDENT LEAVES BOY COMATOSE_

_A SEVEN year old boy is comatose after the freak accident that left three dead on Wednesday._

_The accident occurred just after one in the afternoon when Andrew Borden lost control of his vehicle on Beaufort Street. He struck and killed a pedestrian, Elliott Hawthorne. His passenger, Monique Cross, also died in the accident. Borden’s son, James, was brought to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital following the accident. He remained in critical condition for days, with doctors working around the clock to resuscitate the child._

_“We tried everything,” Dr. Mathis said. Mathis, a pediatric emergency physician at Chelsea and Westminster, has remained with the boy since he arrived at the hospital. “Some things just aren’t meant to be.”_

_Even so, Mathis has indicated that Borden will remain on life support for at least the next few weeks._

_“We’re willing to do whatever it takes to give this boy every possible chance at life,” Mathis said._

* * *

The bank wasn’t far from Q’s flat. It wasn’t the nicest Lloyd’s Bond had ever had the misfortune of frequenting, but it was a bank, and it had been Q’s. No doubt he’d chosen it for a reason.

Whatever that reason had been, it became abundantly clear that Q had made an impression amongst the staff. As soon as Bond mentioned the name _Elliott Hawthorne_ , the receptionist paled and called for a manager. He assured Bond that nothing in the box had been touched and that the only key was the one in Bond’s hand, and would Mr. Bond like a bottle of water while he waited?

“Mr. Bond?” the manager asked as he approached. He was sweating, fidgeting like he anticipated the encounter to turn ugly. “We’ve been expecting someone ever since we heard. News of Mr. Hawthorne’s passing reached us yesterday. We’re terribly sorry for your loss.”

Bond flashed a tight, sad smile and said nothing as he was lead to the wall of safe deposit boxes in a back room. The envelope had said box 9034, which turned out to be one of the larger ones. After unlocking the box from the wall, Bond was led to a white room with a table and chair and told to take as much time as he needed.

As soon as the door was closed, Bond checked the entirety of the room. No visible cameras, no other ways in. Just to be sure, he propped the chair against the door and stood at the low table as he opened the lid to the box.

The smell was the first thing Bond noticed—the box hadn’t been opened in some time. On top was Q’s will. Bond took a cursory glance over it. He needed the executor, any details about what Q might have wanted done…

Bond stopped. Q had listed Lieutenant Colonel Gareth Mallory as his executor.He frowned at the name, but no amount of staring made it disappear. Bond checked the date. The will was four years old and had replaced another one in June of 2012. Q listed no familial beneficiaries and stated that his estate in its entirety was to be sold and all revenue given to the RSPCA with only two exceptions.

_To Afanen Argall, I leave my two cats, Anna and Aubergine, and all of the grief and wonder they may provide._

_To Eve Moneypenny, I leave my signed copy of the first edition of_ Dracula _and_ A History of Haitian Folklore.

That was it. Afanen Argall and Eve Moneypenny were the only beneficiaries.Bond stared at the document, half-wondering where his own name was. Of course, he shouldn’t have wondered. Q had only become the Quartermaster in 2012. They’d met right around the time the will had been authorized.

Bond set the will aside. He’d need to make a detour to Mallory’s office. No doubt he knew he was the executor, but things would go considerably faster if he had the will. Bond heard something from outside the room—people talking louder than usual. He ignored them and turned his attention to the rest of the box—the things Q had felt the need to lock away.

Most obvious was the money—what looked like €10.000 in total. There was a Walther PPK/S that was likely coded to Q’s palm, and four passports—British, American, Swedish, and German. Underneath those was a photograph of a smiling family. There were two children, one of which was obviously Q and the other of whom looked like a sister, and their parents, all smiling for the camera. Bond couldn’t tell where it had been taken, though it was dated 1991 on the back.

A chill ran up Bond’s back, and he set the photograph aside. Q hadn’t wanted anyone to see it. He’d never spoken of his family to Bond; he hadn’t even known that Q had a sister. Bond had assumed all of Q’s relatives to be dead. Judging by the will, he was likely correct.

Bond replaced the money and the gun and the rest, keeping the will. He drew the chair away from the door and prepared to leave the room. When he opened it, a familiar face was already there, one hand on the gun in his jacket.

“M,” Bond said, opening the door further to show the empty room.

Mallory started, clearly not expecting James Bond to appear before him. He slowly lowered his hand to his side.

“What are you doing here?” Mallory demanded, whispering.

“You’re going to need this,” Bond said, handing him the will. He kept a firm grip on the safe deposit box as Mallory gingerly took the document.

“His will?” Mallory asked. “Why?”

It was then that Bond noticed the rest—there was Tanner and Moneypenny and a slew of agents swarming the bank. There were patrol cars parked outside, lights flashing, with a handful of MI6 vans parked amongst them.

“What’s going on here?” Bond asked.

Mallory looked between Bond and everyone else. “You didn’t— Christ. Come over here.”

Bond allowed himself to be ushered back into that tiny white room. Mallory closed the door and braced himself against it.

“Elliott’s death has been ruled a homicide,” Mallory said. “The security breath you reported was traced to an employee here, an Andrew Borden.”

“Borden,” Bond said. “That was the driver.”

Mallory nodded. “That’s right. But there’s something else.”

“What?”

“Borden and Cross died the day before they killed Elliott,” Mallory said. “Drug overdoses, both of them. Borden hadn’t reported for work, and Cross’s friends said she went missing after a night out. Toxicology reports from the coroners confirm it. Bond, they were Risen.”

“Risen can drive now?”

Mallory scowled. “Be serious, 007,” he said. “We have to work with the facts, and the fact of the matter is that they were dead upon impact because they were dead when they got into that vehicle.”

Bond’s stomach turned. “Someone sent them to kill Q,” he said.

“They weren’t family or friends?”

Bond shook his head. “They’re not listed here,” he said, gesturing at the will in Mallory’s hand, “and I doubt they knew each other personally. Someone had to have given them that order.” He thought a moment. “Borden had a son in the car.”

“Unresponsive but definitively alive,” Mallory said.

“If Borden didn’t attack his son…”

“All the more likely that this was the work of a pair of necromancers,” Mallory finished.

Bond took in a breath.

“Q’s estimated time of death,” Bond said, staring at the point just to the right of Mallory’s left ear, “how does it match with the reported breach?”

“You reported the breach, Bond.”

Bond scowled. “When did the breach register on Q’s systems?” he asked. “If it had been before, Q would have turned around and come back. Instead, he walked into the street, apparently missed the speeding car coming his way, and got himself killed.”

“And if it was after, the attack couldn’t have been launched by Borden,” Mallory said, “and we have an unrelated false alarm.”

“Or a decoy,” Bond said. He thrust the safe deposit box into Mallory’s arms and made to go for the door.

“Where are you going?” Mallory demanded, holding his gun, Q’s will, and the box with not a single iota of grace.

“To find the necromancers,” Bond said, turning away. He gazed across the scene on the bank floor with disinterest once more until something outside caught his eye—yet another familiar face. “I’ll be back.”

“Bond—” Mallory called, but Bond had already begun to move, transfixed as he was by the thing standing outside. If anyone else saw her, they didn’t let on.

“Eager, this time?” Vesper asked when he was outside, no less than a meter from her face. There was a puddle under her, a growing wet spot on the sidewalk. Water ran down the bridge of her nose and slid down her cheeks in endless drops. “You didn’t come see me this morning.”

“What have you done?” Bond demanded, keeping his voice down. “You’re responsible for this. _What have you done?_ ”

“You forgot about our appointment,” Vesper said. Bond remembered all of a sudden: _Blue Bridge, St. James Park, 1500._ It was ten past three in the afternoon now.

“What have you done?” Bond repeated.

“Nothing you would have, clearly,” Vesper said, smiling. She didn’t show her teeth. Somehow, that was worse.

“Don’t do this,” Bond said. “Whatever it is, stop it.”

Vesper shook her head softly enough that her hair, waterlogged and heavy, failed to move with her. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“What is this?” Bond asked. “Some sort of revenge? I hunted them down.” He knew it to be true as he said it. He had, hadn’t he? “I avenged you.”

“You avenged yourself,” Vesper said, eyes flashing in a manner he didn’t remember from life. “After all I did for you, you forgot me.” She looked away then. “But,” she said, “this doesn’t have to be it.”

“Explain.”

“Rude. Maybe I won’t.”

Bond shut his eyes and immediately regretted it. He could see the sunlight, the clouds, the tall buildings, the murky water, the elevator, her hands—

Bond opened his eyes and found Vesper right in front of his face, staring. It took all he had not to recoil. He could smell the rot over lingering traces of perfume. _The canals_.

“Please,” Bond said, the word bile at the back of his throat.

Vesper withdrew, still smiling. “Since you asked so nicely,” she said, “I’ll tell you. Not now, though.” Bond bristled and opened his mouth, but Vesper continued, saying, “Don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“Vesper—”

She shook her head again. “No, James,” she said, drawing out the ’s’. “You don’t get to decide the terms. I’m the one who’s dead.”

“You’re not dead. You’re something else entirely.”

When Vesper smiled this time, she bared her teeth in a feral grin. Bond had a vision of those teeth closing around his neck just as they had some time ago, except now they tore. He bled, and she kept ripping. He went limp, and she kept going.

“Bury your dead,” Vesper said, turning around. Already, she was turning into something else, the glamor fading. Bond remembered—how many times had he forgotten—that this thing was not Vesper, just something that wore her like a skin to get under his. “When it’s over, stay behind. I’ll tell you then.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?” Bond asked, speaking just a little louder than he knew he ought to. He had the strangest feeling that the street was stretching out before him, that Vesper—the thing that masqueraded as Vesper—was getting farther away without moving in the slightest.

“Spoils the fun,” Vesper-not-Vesper said. The voice was different now. Bond thought he heard the crack of bones, the creak of iron under pressure, air bubbles rising up through deep water. “Besides, you’ll be more amenable to the proposition when it hits you.”

Bond didn’t ask what ‘it’ was.

“Proposition?”

“ _You’ll see._ ” This, in a sing-song tone, like a little bell.

Bond blinked, and it was gone. He stood alone on the sidewalk, people veering around him.

“Bond?” He turned to see Tanner, white as a ghost behind him. Tanner swallowed, sweat running down his face. Bond had seen something like that before—water, where had he seen water?

Oh, right. He looked up. Someone in a flat almost directly above him was watering their plants, the excess spilling over the edge. Bond took a step away so as not to be hit.

“ _Bond_ ,” Tanner repeated. “That— That was—”

Moneypenny appeared behind him, leaving the bank with Mallory. They looked between Tanner and Bond with concern.

“I— I saw…” Tanner couldn’t get the words out.

“What did you— Bond, what happened?” Mallory demanded as Moneypenny took hold of Tanner. They were drawing something of a crowd.

“I’ll let you know when I have something,” Bond said. Careful to avoid the falling water—really, how had he not noticed it before?—Bond headed off to his car.


	3. Act III

**_MI6 Field Guide - Chapter III - Undead Risen_ **

**_Undead Risen_ ** _are all Risen who do not rise of their own accord. Risen of this nature are brought about by a necromancer (see: Chapter IV - Necromancy). Undead Risen have historically been a “rare” type of Risen across Western Europe, likely due to the widespread persecution of those seeking to learn the arts of necromancy, though this trend does not hold in the Caribbean and Africa. The subsequent overabundance of Vengeful Risen as opposed to Undead Risen led to their classification as Deviant Risen due to their peculiar behaviors with regards to their Vengeful counterparts. Researchers now understand that many of the peculiarities of Vengeful Risen are the direct result of a necromancer’s hand._

_Undead Risen are strictly carnivorous, like all Risen. However, Undead Risen have been reported to roam during the day when at the side of a necromancer. Further, Undead Risen tend not to target friends and family, and there exists no evidence of Undead Risen targeting the necromancer who has raised them. Instead, Undead Risen have been demonstrated to exclusively hunt those the necromancer has given explicit orders to hunt. Enemies of the necromancer are the most likely targets._

_In a number of cases, particularly where the necromancer is a well-intentioned family member, the Undead Risen starves for lack of such a target and dies a second death. Like their Vengeful counterparts, there exist no reports of an Undead Risen rising for a second time, though attempts have been made under controlled conditions._

_Unlike Vengeful Risen, which can either starve or be destroyed, Undead Risen can die at the order of their necromancer, or upon the death of their necromancer. Undead Risen have been demonstrated to survive no more than fifteen minutes following the death of their necromancer, and even then only under specific conditions._

_Because Undead Risen are subject to the whims of the necromancer who has raised them, extreme caution must be taken when handling such cases. Undead Risen may exhibit behavior that would be considered harmful, derogatory, or dangerous in life. Any crimes committed by an Undead Risen, including assault and murder, must be attributed to their necromancer._

_No British citizen shall engage in the practice of necromancy, whether on British soil or abroad, without a license (see: Chapter IV - Necromancy)._

 

**_MI6 Field Guide - Chapter IV - Necromancy - Double-0 Programme Addendum, Issued 05–14-20 10_ **

**CONFIDENTIAL: DOUBLE-0 SECTION ONLY**

_All individuals, both British and non-British citizens, who are practitioners of necromancy represent a threat to civilized society. If a necromancer cannot be persuaded to give up the craft, MI6 fully authorizes one’s license to kill provided that ample evidence of necromancy exists._

_It is the understanding of the Administration of MI6 that an agent will learn much of the practice of necromancy in the field. However, as is stated elsewhere,_ **_the practice of necromancy is strictly forbidden to double-0 agents without exception_ ** _. Agents who fail to comply with this dictum will be treated as enemies of the state._

* * *

Bond planned Q’s funeral. He picked out flowers—lilies, hydrangea, roses. Just because he thought Q would like them, he got orchids as well. Q was a lot like an orchid, difficult and lovely, though Bond doubted he would have done well in a jungle. Bond had Moneypenny spread the word about the funeral, where it would be and what was appropriate. The entirety of Q Division wanted to come to pay their respects, something that Mallory strongly fought against, though he had his hands tied too tightly in dealing with Q’s affairs to do much of anything about it. Several administrators wanted to come as well and insisted on chipping in with costs. When they found out that it was Bond who they’d have to be dealing with, their offers cooled slightly. Most of the double-0 section and the rest of Six besides were in the wind hunting Risen, though they sent their condolences and regrets all the same. Moneypenny collected those along with everything else.

Two days beforehand, Bond drove to Scotland.

The last he’d made the trip, M had been in the passenger seat of an Aston Martin DB5. The DB5 had gone up in smoke with Skyfall, Silva had killed M, Bond had killed Silva. Now, Bond kept glancing to the passenger seat, expecting to see M sitting there, staring pensively out the window, waiting patiently to strike.

He’d started early, so he arrived at a moderately reasonable hour starving and with cramps in his legs. He pulled through the remains of the gate and went down the drive to the front of the property. The ruins of Skyfall sat before him. Bond remembered it burning. It seemed to have calcified and sunk in on itself, but he could still make out the foundations, little bits of walls sticking out from the rubble.

In the distance stood the chapel, untouched, a shrine to a world long dead. He’d been right not to bring Q here, even if it did mean that in a century or so someone else would take Q’s rightful place.

Off, somewhere beyond that, was Kincade’s home.

Bond hadn’t been there in years, but he imagined that it looked much the same as it always had: a little uneven, a little small, full of warm things that, for Kincade, meant _home_ : guns and blankets and a perpetual stock of hearty food; a big fireplace, a bigger pile of firewood, and several pipes.

Bond could have driven over, but he decided to walk instead. He felt low. He wanted a drink, and maybe something to eat. Probably just another drink. There was a chill wind across the moors, as per usual. Bond wrapped himself in his jacket just a little tighter and navigated the long walk to Kincade’s doorway.

The shack, as Bond had anticipated, looked exactly the same from the outside, if not a little worse for wear. The wood had weathered, and Kincade had replaced the windows. Bond knocked on the door and waited as he heard bustling from the inside.

“If you’re calling about the property, it’s not for sale,” Kincade shouted as he came to the door. “Previous owner bought it back and wants it _untouched_.” Kincade opened the door and caught sight of Bond. “Christ, James, you gave me a scare. Come in, come in. You look frozen; a far cry from when you were a boy running wild out there eh?”

Bond stepped inside. Same on the inside, same on the outside. Kincade had a fire going hot enough that Bond slipped off his jacket as soon as he settled in. He knew that he’d been acclimated to this sort of weather before, but he couldn’t quite remember how.

“Kincade,” Bond said, “good to see you.”

“Aye,” Kincade said,“and you as well. I didn’t expect you, seeing as you didn’t call.”

Bond smiled. “Just stopped in,” he said.

Kincade shook his head. “It’s a long way to ‘just stop in’. What’d’ye want?” he asked.

“A drink,” Bond said.

“We can do that.”

Bond took one of Kincade’s two armchairs and settled in, accepting a glass of something strong and brown when it was handed to him. Bond took a larger sip than he probably should have and leaned his head back, shutting his eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kincade asked, settling into the other in front of the fire. He poked it once, sparks flying up the chimney. Bond hummed. “Or do even you need some liquid courage when it comes down to it?”

“More than I admit,” Bond said.

“Sounds like an admission.”

Bond smiled a little bit. “I’ve planned a funeral,” he said, looking at Kincade. “Someone important to me.”

Kincade nodded, waiting.

“I almost buried him here. I thought about it.”

Kincade took in a breath, then a long drink. Bond followed suit, eyes on the fire.

“James,” Kincade said, “that’s—”

“I know what it is, Kincade,” Bond said. “He’s—was important to me.”

Kincade was quiet for several long moments.

“I can’t stop you from doing anything one way or another,” he said. “It’s better that you didn’t do it here, though. You don’t visit. You own the property but you didn’t rebuild. You don’t live here. James, dragging some woman up here is one thing, but—”

“He’s not,” Bond said. “He wouldn’t be disturbed here. I’ve rented a plot outside London. Eventually, someone will take his place.”

“So long as you hold the lands, sure, he wouldn’t be touched,” Kincade said. “But after? Your man’d be moved no matter which way you slice it.”

“It’s better this way,” Bond said.

 _If I left him here, maybe I could let him go_.

“This man,” Kincade started. “Did you…?”

“Yes,” Bond said. “Yes, I did.”

“I’ll get a headstone made, then,” Kincade said.

“You don’t—”

“He’ll match your parents and everyone before,” Kincade said. “Everyone in the family. It’s tradition, even if he’s not here.”

Kincade topped off Bond’s drink. Bond accepted the refill with gratitude.

“It was a car accident,” Bond said.

“Gone too soon.”

“I didn’t get to tell him.” Bond took another drink.

“He knows,” Kincade said. Bond shook his head. “I believe it.”

“I know you do,” Bond said. “It’s just… I can’t sleep.” To admit so much felt like such a blow, but in Kincade’s house, cushioned and surrounded on all sides by things Kincade had owned for decades and cared for, it hardly registered. He was safe. “I dream about him. I see him, and… And there’s nothing I can do.” Bond leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Kincade said nothing more, just sat and drank with him until dark.

“Stay for the night,” Kincade said.

“I don’t think—”

“Stay,” Kincade said. “We’ll work it out in the morning.”

Bond stayed. For the first night since he learned of Q’s death, he slept well.

* * *

Two days later, the day of the funeral, though the affair was private, closed, and largely unpublicized, the funeral home was packed tightly.

Mallory spoke, as did Moneypenny. Off-duty agents and boffins sat and cried and mourned. Bond sat, still as stone, staring straight ahead. He heard them speak, noted the ways in which they talked about a colleague and a friend, but if he’d been asked to repeat any one of the words, he wouldn’t have been able to.

“You should be up there,” Moneypenny had told him when the plans were not yet set in stone. Bond had refused, and so he sat at the absolute back of the service, tie tied just this side of too tight around his neck, silent and unmoving.

Moments before the service began, 0014 arrived, his jacket over his arm, and sat beside him. He did not cry, but Bond knew 0014 as well as anyone—Q’s death had hurt him. Q had been good to the double-0 section. He’d been good to everyone, remembering names and dates, all the little things that made a field agent good, but to the double-0 agents he’d been especially kind. He knew what they went through, what they saw, and he did whatever he could to help. He built bombs and guns; he designed new explosives and poisons and always offered a kit with a smile and a request: _bring the equipment back in one piece, please_. Unspoken was the understanding that to do so, the agent had to survive.

For all that he listened to others, Q had never been particularly forthcoming about himself. There were many things about Q Bond could never know now—details about past relationships; secrets that he’d kept; his endless array of likes and dislikes; his feelings. Bond wondered if anyone in that room knew anything of Q at all.

It didn’t matter much. They cried, and then they went back to work or home. They went back to their lives.

Bond almost thought them lucky, that they would walk away like that while he remained stuck in place, staring at a casket he’d have to carry for the rest of his life.

“He’ll be moved soon,” Mallory said, standing at the end of the pew. Tanner and Moneypenny flanked him. They would be there when Q was buried; they had insisted. Bond stared straight on, his eyes falling on the closed casket at the front of the room, the flowers he’d picked. Q’s orchids. It seemed silly now because Q wasn’t there to see them.

Beside him, 0014 stood. Bond rose not a moment later.

“Bond—”

Bond stared at Mallory, daring him to say something else.

“We’ll meet you there,” 0014 said. His voice was deep and soft. Bond had heard him sing once, and he’d never forgotten the beauty of his tone. It had been on an operation in Venezuela, something joint with Spain. Bond hadn’t been a double-0 agent yet, though he would be granted his license not long after. 0014 had sung as he sniped at a necromancer and its Risen from afar: it had been a Slovak lullaby, murmured soft and gentle as he pulled the trigger.

Mallory turned away. Tanner and Moneypenny remained a moment longer, staring, before they, too, left.

Q’s casket still sat at the front of the room. Bond walked to the end of his pew and approached it, running a hand over the polished wood.

“Do they really think I’m so far gone?” Bond asked.

“They don’t know what to think,” 0014 said. “You didn’t have him cremated. They don’t understand.”

“And you do?”

“Remember Clarke?”

Bond remembered Clarke. It had been an absolute disaster from start to finish. MI6 had lost one of their best agents—Clarke, then 003—and a promising source—Yin Lee, a defector who knew all of the ins and outs of Fu Ziqiang’s arms operation—in the span of forty-eight hours.

“They sent me after her,” 0014 said, then fell silent, “after she tried to raise him.” Through the walls, Bond heard Tanner’s car back out of the parking lot and head out onto the street. “He wouldn’t want it, James,” 0014 said softly.

Several things burned in Bond’s mouth— _how would you know_ and _I would never_ and _but what if he did?_

“The penalty of necromancy is death,” Bond said instead. 0014 didn’t bother to respond to the obvious.

Bond and 0014 made their way outside, where they stood in the thin light of day. It was another cold one. 0014 offered a cigarette, and Bond accepted.

Q’s casket was loaded into the back of the designated hearse fifteen minutes and two cigarettes later. Bond had never been much of a smoker—neither was 0014, most of the time, though he’d changed over the years Bond had known him—but they stood together, watching the smoke curl up to the sky, until it was time to leave.

Bond drove directly behind the hearse, watching the doors to the back through the windshield more than anything else. He imagined those doors opening, Q climbing out.

 _Hello, James_ , he would say.

 _Hello, Q_.

The doors did not open, and Q did not lean out. Bond drove, feeling exhausted and drained. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to go home to his sparely furnished apartment and drink his own liquor and hunt Risen and keep going until he eventually found Q again on the other side of the universe. He drove and half-wished for death.

0014 drove behind him, veering when he veered, shifting when he shifted. It might have been comforting had it been anyone else. As it was, Bond knew that 0014 had at least four firearms on his person, three grenades, and one garrote in his watch. If he suspected Bond of anything untoward, it wouldn’t be much of a fight.

 _Unless you had the element of surprise_.

The thought came to Bond just as he pulled up to the cemetery, 0014 just moments behind him. Mallory, Moneypenny, and Tanner were already there, conferring together in front of Tanner’s car. They broke their circle when the hearse pulled up, and Tanner walked to Bond’s side when he got out of the car.

“Bond,” he said, speaking to Bond but looking at 0014, “it’s standard procedure—” Bond stared at him, and Tanner swallowed. “Don’t take it personal. M’s in a tizzy with all of the Risen cropping up.”

Bond shrugged and looked past Tanner to Mallory. “I’ll bet he is,” he said quietly. Tanner followed his gaze, then turned back to Bond.

“You put the wards in the coffin?” Tanner asked.

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry,” Tanner said. “Had to ask.”

Bond turned away from him as the driver opened the rear doors to the hearse. Bond and Mallory took the front. Tanner and Moneypenny took the middle. 0014 and the representative from the funeral home took the back. They walked the casket up the short distance to the plot Bond had purchased. There was the hole, and a minister, something Mallory had insisted on. Bond had wanted to get on with it, for it to be over.

Static filled his ears as Q’s coffin was removed from his casket, as the coffin was lowered into the earth. It seemed to just keep going, never stopping, but eventually it had to. Mallory spoke. The minister spoke. Bond felt much as he had during the service. He stared at the dull wood, at the way the weak sunlight did its best to warm it, until it was covered all over with dirt and he felt someone’s hand at his shoulder.

“We should go,” Moneypenny said.

“No,” Bond said.

“Bond.”

He shrugged her off. “I’m staying,” he said, “a little while longer.”

Moneypenny stepped away from him. “All right,” she said.

She left. So, too, did Mallory, and Tanner. The man from the funeral home left with the hearse. The minister left.

0014 stayed.

“How long?” Bond asked.

“As long as it takes,” 0014 answered—honestly, Bond thought. “You’ve got them worried.”

Bond didn’t respond right away. A chill had settled into his bones, as if he’d stood too long in the sun and a cloud had obscured it, leaving him in the shade for the first time in forever.

0014 cursed behind him, and Bond knew it wasn’t the clouds.

“Hello,” Vesper—not Vesper, not entirely—said.

Bond looked up at her. Vesper was there in wisps of smoke, in the texture of wet wrought iron and the smell of burnt concrete. Underneath that, though, there was someone else—a woman Bond had never seen before.

0014 drew a rifle from his jacket and took two shots. Vesper’s eyes went wide as she bled away, leaving the other woman to stand, face white, eyes full of shock and sadness.

“Walker,” the woman said, “why…”

“You’re not Anna,” 0014 said. Bond could hear the quaver in his voice even as he remembered—0014 had been grounded after an incident with Death. 008 had been called in to finish the job.

“Walker,” Bond said, eyes fixed on the woman, “stand down.”

“You’re not Anna,” 0014 repeated. If he’d heard Bond, he gave no indication.

“Walker,” the woman said, “you promised, you promised you’d never hurt me—”

0014 took two more shots before Bond wrestled the gun from his grip. 0014 swung wildly at Bond, but his coordination was shot and his blows went wide. Bond got him on the ground, pinned his arms, and turned his own gun on him.

0014 stared up at him, eyes like dinner plates.

 _If you get the element of surprise_ …

“James,” Vesper said, “you shouldn’t have.”

Bond didn’t turn around.

“Stay out of this,” Bond said. “Walker. I need you to calm down. That isn’t your Anna. We both need to leave.”

“Anna,” 0014 said. “Anna, Anna…”

“I don’t think you want to do that.” Bond heard the slither as she moved, felt the way his suit went damp when she rested her hands on his shoulders. Underneath him, 0014 shook and writhed, attempting to buck Bond from his chest. In any other circumstances, he might have succeeded, but the weight on Bond’s shoulders was enough that even _he_ couldn’t move.

“After all, don’t you want to hear my proposition?” Vesper asked, dragging out the words.

“What business does Death have in the affairs of the living?” Bond asked, staring ahead at Q’s headstone. Kincade had been right; to see it done in the same style as his own parents felt _right_. The cold of the ground began to seep into him through his knees, passing through his skin and down deep to his bones.

“Life _is_ my business,” Vesper said. He felt the curve of her fingers, soft and chill, against the shell of his ear.

“Anna,” 0014 groaned from underneath him. “Why, why…”

The air next to Bond shivered. Bond felt warmth, writing on a chalkboard, late nights spent gazing at galaxies. Vesper had disappeared.

“Walker,” Anna said, “why did you hurt me? You hurt me, and you wouldn’t stop.”

“Anna,” 0014 repeated. He spoke her name over and over, even as his attempts to shake Bond grew weaker and weaker.

“What do you want?” Bond asked. Walker’s gun had warmed in his hands. It wasn’t one of Q’s—no palm print technology. There was nothing to stop Bond from shooting the blubbering man under him.

Distantly, he wondered why he would want to do such a thing.

“007.”

Bond looked up sharply and—

He didn’t drop the gun. He didn’t move, though that was more because he couldn’t. He blinked, the air leaving his chest.

“Q,” he said on the exhale.

Before him, Q stood, his legs disappearing into the short grass. Bond could see the shine of his hair in the sun, could see the indentations where he’d been—

“ _Bond_.”

“You should listen, James,” Vesper said. “He’s been trying so hard to get through.”

“With no help from you,” Q snapped, staring over Bond’s shoulder at Vesper. Without being able to see her, Bond knew that she grinned, her teeth knives and dead fish.

“Q,” Bond said. “You’re—”

“Put the gun down, James,” Q said. “Please.”

“Oh, so you _were_ on a first-name basis,” Vesper said. “But he has such a poor sense of dress, and was his hair always so dismal?” Vesper laughed as Q glared at her. She laughed, her voice like a bell ringing too loudly next to Bond’s ear. “Can’t see why you liked him so much better than me.”

“I didn’t,” Bond said, automatically. Something flitted across Q’s face, and Bond quickly said, “You’re different. I loved you both.”

“Bond,” Q said. “No, don’t— Maybe you did, but that doesn’t change the fact that I died. Whatever she offers you—”

“That’s more than enough,” Vesper said. Her arm appeared in Bond’s line of sight. She made a motion with her fingers, and while Q’s mouth continued moving, no sound emerged. “Much better.”

Bond stiffened and tried to stand to face her, only to find that he couldn’t. Underneath him, 0014 had gone still.

“What have you done?” Bond asked. He glanced down at 0014. He was still breathing; Bond could feel the rise and fall of his chest.

“I’ve given you time,” Vesper said. “Life and Death are more complicated than you want to believe. Your friend’s giving away a few minutes so that you can see your dearly departed.” Bond paled and stared at Q, who was trying to shout. He looked hurt, and Bond wanted nothing more to reach out and comfort him.

“Bullshit,” Bond said, staring at Q. “It doesn’t take life to raise the dead.”

Vesper giggled. “Oh, you think I’ve done something as mundane as create a _Risen_?” She spoke the word as if it were dirty, something to be whispered away from the all-seeing eyes of adults. “This is far more sophisticated. You’ll see, if you’ll hear me out.”

“I’m listening,” Bond said.

“Good,” Vesper said, “because I’ll only say this once.”

Her hands left Bond’s shoulders, but the cold, the wet, and the pressure remained. Bond remained paralyzed. Below him, 0014’s skin had gone flushed and hot as his pulse stuttered.

“I’m willing to make you a deal,” Vesper said, coming to stand next to Q. She draped herself across his form as if in embrace. Q stiffened, clearly distressed, mouth working quickly and soundlessly. Bond could do no more than stare. “You care for this one. I’m willing to bring him back.”

“Bring him back,” Bond said. The ground underneath his knees was hard and littered with stones, and his calves strained from holding an awkward position for too long. “Not as a Risen.”

“Not as a Risen,” Vesper said. “Don’t you want the chance to hold him? To feel him? To walk with him in the sun and know that he’s _alive_ again? Not a corpse, or a skeleton. He’d be _alive_. Unharmed. As if it had never happened.”

Bond swallowed. “You can do that.”

“Of course,” Vesper said. Something shifted under her skin. Bond could see ripples of water, the shadows of narrow ridges of waves, passing over her. “I am Death.”

“How?” Bond asked. He hated himself for that single syllable, for the visions it conjured—not of the act, but of _after_. Himself and Q. He could explain himself properly then. They couldn’t go back to MI6—even if Bond himself didn’t raise Q, even if he wasn’t a proper Risen, it would be too risky. Q would understand. He’d love him for it. Bond would give up—

“It’s simple,” Vesper said. “There has to be an exchange.” When Bond said nothing, she continued, “He’s not been with me long, so I’d say seven would do the trick.”

“Seven…”

“Seven lives,” Vesper said.

Bond swallowed.

“Not Risen. Taken for the express purpose of this,” Vesper said, tracing Q’s jaw with a finger. She trailed a finger down Q’s throat. Q looked ready to weep, or to lash out. “How about this. I’ll even count Borden and Cross toward the body count.”

 _Borden and Cross_.

Those names were familiar as Vesper said them.

“Oh, you see it now,” Vesper said. “It’s taken you long enough.”

“You had him killed. You picked those people and had them kill him.”

“They were my Risen,” Vesper said, “so your authorities might attempt to attribute responsibility—”

“ _You killed him_.”

Beneath him, 0014 failed to so much as twitch under Bond’s weight.

“Death is Death,” Vesper said. “It was his time. Be grateful I’ve offered you this opportunity at all. Of course, should you decide not to take it…”

The edges of Q, his fingers and the ends of his hair, the line between him and the world, began to blur.

“No,” Bond said, panicking.

“You’ll agree?”

“I want to speak to him first,” Bond said. Vesper frowned. “I have to. And then…”

Vesper made a motion over Q’s mouth.

“Bond— Please, _please_ , say no, say no to this,” Q said as soon as he could speak again. His voice had gone hoarse. It was a sound that might have broken Bond’s heart had it been another time and another place. Times had changed. Bond could only see one thing, and that was Q, so close yet so far away.

“Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t miss it?” Bond asked, pleading. “The warmth? The rain? The sun?” He could feel himself growing louder, tenser, desperate to get Q to see how much this meant, what it could mean. “Being _alive_?”

Bond’s voice cracked, and he was left staring, trying to breathe and failing. He’d been here before, he knew that. It had broken him then, but he’d recovered. This felt different, permanent, and if he couldn’t grasp this solution as it presented itself—

“Of course I miss it,” Q said, his voice soft, “but you can’t do this. _I_ can’t— I can’t accept this. If you do this, I’ll—” He swallowed, looking elsewhere. “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I don’t have rights, Bond. I refuse.”

Bond watched as Vesper’s grip tightened on his shoulders.

“Now, _Elliott_ ,” Vesper said, “we talked about this.”

“No,” Q said flatly. Her fingers dug deeper. “ _No_.”

Vesper looked to Bond. “Better make that ten.”

Q’s eyes snapped back to Bond. He opened his mouth, no doubt to voice another protest, but Vesper silenced him once more.

“Ten,” Vesper said. “Seven for me, three for _him_.”

“For—”

Vesper didn’t let Bond finish. “The unwilling are always harder,” she said, with a pointed glare at Q. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem for you, though. You’ve already got three.”

_Borden, Cross, and…?_

“Walker,” Vesper said with a shrug. “I’ll count him, too.”

Bond looked down for the first time in a while. 0014 was splayed beneath him, unmoving. Bond reached to check his pulse—had he been capable of moving all this time?—and found none.

“You…” Bond started, trailing off.

“Took too much time,” Vesper said. “But, on the bright side, three down, seven to go. Do we have a deal?”

Bond found Vesper’s hand hanging in front of his face as he looked up. She had Q looped under one arm—Q, who stared blankly at 0014’s body, who refused to look at Bond.

 _He’ll come around_.

Even if he didn’t, Bond couldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t try.

Bond reached out to take Vesper’s hand. He winced as if he’d just stuck his hand in filthy water as she squeezed. Droplets oozed out from her skin under the pressure and wet 0014’s face.

“We are agreed,” Vesper said, her grip like iron, her face pale and sickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *quietly, and with a lot of feeling* holy shit...


	4. Act IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that I have two characters named Anna. Oops.

Bond woke to the sound of something beeping, pulsating and regular. When he attempted to open his eyes, bright lights burned him. He shivered, freezing. His knees ached—his entire body throbbed in pain. His shoulders felt pinched and restrained, and when he tried to move, he couldn’t.

Over the course of what felt like an eternity, Bond forced himself to open his eyes, to see what had happened. It was still too bright, but he saw overhead lights, a ceiling, white walls. Where was he? He remembered carrying the casket, watching the coffin go into the grave, Mallory and Moneypenny and Tanner leaving—

“Thank God, he’s—”

The voice came from close—so close it was _loud_ , and Bond strained to get away from it. There was a shuffling and the _swritch_ of metal on metal.

“Bond,” a man said. “Bond. _James_. Look at me.”

Bond knew that voice. He did his best to comply.

Two faces looked down over him. For one horrifying moment, he saw his parents—his mother, smiling softly; his father, looking down at him with concern.

Was that what his parents looked like? He couldn’t quite remember.

Bond blinked, and the image resolved itself: Tanner and Moneypenny. Definitely not his parents. Tanner looked worse for wear, with massive dark circles under his eyes and a pallor that spoke of sickness. Moneypenny just looked relieved.

“You’re alive,” Moneypenny said, slightly breathless. “He’s— Doctor!” she called, looking back over her shoulder. “He’s awake, he’s—”

Bond looked to Tanner.

“Christ, James,” Tanner said. “You gave us all a scare.”

Bond opened his mouth to speak and found he couldn’t. He needed water, he needed—

Tanner saw the problem and fetched him something from outside of his immediate line of sight. A cup was pressed to his lips—not water but ice. Bond took an ice chip and sucked on it, the cold sinking in. Far from uncomfortable, Bond felt relief at the sensation.

The _why_ hit him like a train.

 _Vesper_. How had he forgotten her? After what they’d had, after all that he’d done?

“Where am I?” Bond asked.

“King’s College Hospital,” Tanner said. “We drove you in as fast we we could.”

“Walker,” Bond said. “Is he—”

Tanner’s face pinched in a way that looked uncomfortable.

“What happened?” Bond asked.

“We were hoping you’d tell us,” Tanner said. “Not right away— Not until we’re sure you’ve recovered.”

“Recovered?” Bond rasped, throat dry again.

Tanner licked his lips, conflicted. Moneypenny returned to the room and pulled him aside before he could tell Bond anything else. Bond lay back. He couldn’t hear them—they’d left the immediate vicinity. Why? He felt another chill pass through him. _Did they know he’d killed Walker?_

Except—he hadn’t killed 0014. Anna—Vesper—Death—had killed him. Vesper didn’t kill unless she had to, and Anna didn’t seem like a murderer.

 _They were the same_ , Bond thought, though he pushed the notion away quickly. He’s spoken with Vesper. It had been her, he was sure of it. They’d made an agreement. Ten lives, three paid upfront, seven to go. Q would be back. It would be as if he’d never died.

A doctor entered the room, a man Bond was quite sure he’d seen before.

“Mr. Bond,” the doctor said, “I’m Dr. Lighter. Pleased to meet you.”

Several things crossed Bond’s mind all at once. _Borden_ and _Cross_. _J. M. Duran_ —the card in Q’s wallet. Dr. Montes, who’d shown Bond the body, Fields, the waitress. Oh, and Dr. Mathis—the man mentioned in the paper who’d been taking care of the Borden kid. Now, Dr. Lighter—neatly groomed mustache and beard, American accent.

 _Felix Leiter_. Had someone named the agent before that moment, Bond wouldn’t have recognized the name. He’d forgotten so much. He wasn’t sure how much he’d forgotten, or how long he’d failed to remember something so important—Vesper, the elevator, Venice, revenge—but he was beginning to remember. Now, the pieces lined up for him.

Once he was out of the hospital, he’d need to make a few preparations.

“Hello,” Bond said, attempting a charming smile. Based on Dr. Lighter’s matching gesture, it had worked.

“I’d just like to ask you a few questions,” Dr. Lighter said. “Do you feel up to that?”

“I do,” Bond said, smiling. He wondered where Dr. Lighter lived, figured it would be easy enough to find out. Did he have a family? Felix had. Bond wondered if he was still alive, or if Dr. Lighter had simply replaced him somehow. Stranger things had happened.

Dr. Lighter clicked the end of a cheap pen he pulled out of the pocket of his coat and set about asking a series of routine questions.

* * *

Bond managed to get out of the hospital the next morning. He was miffed enough he had to stay overnight, but he couldn’t begin to match Moneypenny’s wrath when she heard he intended to check out against medical advice.

“Listen, Bond,” she said, coming up next to him as he walked out of the building, “Death killed 0014. We know—there’s no other explanation. He just _dropped dead_. You’re alive, which means it’s going to come after you, too. We need to keep you here—”

“It won’t,” Bond promised. “I’m better than that.”

Moneypenny scowled at him. “No one beats Death.”

“Maybe I will.”

“What aren’t you telling us?” The question gave Bond pause. Before he could answer, Moneypenny carried on, “Bond, what happened there? Police brought you in when they saw you collapsed in the cemetery. Walker had a gun, and you were out cold. You were going to die of exposure out there. Bond, if Death is coming—”

Bond shook his head. “I need a favour,” he said.

“Bond—”

“It’s important,” Bond said. “I might—” He hesitated, sighing and scowling. It was early yet. He had work to do, and here Moneypenny was, wasting his time. He needed to come up with a solution and fast. Something occurred to him. “I don’t think Q’s death was an accident.”

“You said so much,” Moneypenny said. “We know.”

“I think I’m onto something.”

“Bond, Walker is—”

“I know,” Bond said, “but Death killed Q, too.” Something flitted across Moneypenny’s face—something dark and sad. “I have to do this.”

Moneypenny stepped away from him. She seemed further from him now than she’d ever been. “Good luck, Bond,” she said. “I hope you get to the bottom of this.”

“Not going to offer to help?” Bond asked, only half-teasing.

Moneypenny smiled without the slightest bit of warmth or mirth. “You loved him, didn’t you?”

Something settled low in Bond’s gut, cold and twisted. He could see Q’s face in his mind’s eye: there he was in the National Gallery that first time they’d met, there he was in his labs, there he was in Bond’s bed, smiling—

There he was standing at the foot of his own grave, pleading for Bond to make a different call, as if he could turn away from the opportunity.

Bond’s silence must have answered Moneypenny’s question.

“It’s a hard thing,” she said, “to love someone like that, when they’re gone.”

 _But he isn’t gone_ , Bond thought.

“You have to move on.”

 _No_.

Bond had moved on from Vesper. He’d lost everything and he hadn’t even known it.

Would he forget Q if he tried? He had no proof of anything, and yet. Q had shaped him—he’d… Bond couldn’t imagine his life without him, even now, when his body lay in a coffin buried beneath the earth.

Bond smiled tightly at Moneypenny and turned away.

* * *

He picked up his car from the cemetery, left there after he “collapsed”— _if only they knew_ , Bond thought; then: _they would try to stop me_ and _they would fail_. He stood at the foot of Q’s grave, then headed back to his empty flat and stocked liquor cabinet. He needed to plan.

More specifically, he needed to make a list.

He poured himself a drink as soon as he got through the door, then rummaged around until he found himself a pen and a blank sheet of paper.

Vesper had asked for ten lives. She hadn’t specified so much, but Bond could take a hint or five when they were waved in his face: they needed to be _important_ lives. Important to him, anyway. Proof that he remembered.

_Andrew Borden._

_Monique Cross_.

Both deceased. Bond didn’t need to think twice to know what they stood for.

_Neil Walker._

A link to his job, something he could likely never do again—not when he was finished, anyway. Those were the three that had already been taken care of. He needed seven more.

 _Dr. Montes_.

Bond remembered Camille then—the burn on her back, how she flinched at fire. He wished he didn’t.

_Dr. Mathis_

René Mathis. Bond had held him, cradling his head in his hands. He’d lied to Camille about how it had hurt him to abandon his body.

_Fields_

Strawberry Fields, when Bond had known her, but he hadn't confirmed the waitress's given name. Together with Camille, a relic from a time he’d rather have forgotten.

 _Dr. Lighter_.

Felix. Bond had enjoyed working with him. He’d been adept and quick-witted, utterly unlike any other American citizen he’d had the misfortune of working with. He wished he didn’t remember that, either.

 _J. M. Duran_.

Le Chiffre, no doubt. Bond could recall sitting at a table in Montenegro, in over his head with money that wasn’t his trying to take down a ring that supplied necromancers with all manner of dangerous artifacts, staring into that scarred eye.

Bond paused, considering. That was eight. He’d need two more. No doubt he’d find them in time, but time wouldn’t be on his side as soon as he got started. Vesper had covered 0014 for him; Bond doubted she would—or could—do the same for the rest.

(Another name crossed his mind. He dismissed it. He would find another.)

That said, he needed to plan accordingly. He would need an arsenal capable of taking out all of his targets fairly quickly. He had a stash of weaponry pilfered from MI6 and others over the years, pieces he’d “destroyed” or “forgotten to return”—Q had known, though he’d never guessed Bond would do something like this.

The thought of Q standing there, silenced and pleading, came to his mind again.

 _I need you to understand_ , Bond thought. _I can’t do this without you_.

No response. He hadn’t been expecting one. Q had only been able to speak to him because Vesper allowed it. As soon as she had her payment, Q would be free to chastise Bond as he deemed fit, free to ignore him or hate him or forgive him, whatever the case might be. Until that point, Bond had to do what he did best: stalk, aim, and fire.

Montes, Mathis, and Lighter would be easy enough targets at their respective hospitals. Fields could be found at the café, though that was rather public. He’d have to get her at home. Duran was an unknown quantity—Bond would visit him next, maybe get a few leads on his other kills.

He’d have Q back in no time.

* * *

Bond called the number on the back of Duran’s card from his couch as he sipped a drink.

“ _Allô?_ ” a voice asked, answering on the fourth ring.

“ _Allô_ ,” Bond said. In French, he said, “I’d like to speak to M. Duran.”

“Who’s calling?”

“M. Hawthorne,” Bond said. “It’s important.”

“Ah, _bonjour_ , monsieur. I’ll transfer you to him now.”

Bond waited. Soon enough, he heard: “ _Bonjour_ , M. Hawthorne. How may I help you?”

“ _Bonjour_ ,” Bond said. “Something’s come up.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” Bond said. “M. Hawthorne is dead.”

There was a pause, then: “Who am I speaking to now? Where is M. Hawthorne?”

“M. Hawthorne is dead. Car accident. My name is James Bond. I’d like to meet with you.”

“You ask for the impossible.”

“No,” Bond said, staring at his drink, “I think it is very possible.”

Duran hung up rather than say anything else, but it didn’t matter. Bond had traced the call during the conversation: Duran had been at La Défense, Paris, France. After a moment, Bond had a more specific mark: Thales Group, HQ.

 _Arms manufacture_. Q probably bought from them on a regular basis.

“You’re going to kill him.”

Bond’s eyes snapped up from his drink to—

“Q,” Bond said.

Q looked as if he were standing on the other side of the coffee table. If Bond hadn’t noticed how he blurred at the edges, or how his feet weren’t entirely in focus, he might have looked alive.

“You are, aren’t you?” Q asked.

“I have to,” Bond said.

Q looked at the ceiling. “James, it isn’t—” He cut himself off. “Please, don’t do this.”

“Q,” Bond said, standing. “I have to.” He reached for Q, then stopped short. If he tried to touch him now, he wouldn’t feel Q’s pulse, or the calluses on his fingers. He would feel nothing more than a pocket of cold air that refused to disperse. “I love you too much not to.”

Q looked back down at Bond. Had he been alive, he would have been crying.

“James, please, listen to me. It’s—”

Bond’s mobile rang. His eyes darted down to the screen—no caller ID, familiar number, _Mallory_ —then back up to Q.

Q was gone.

Bond swallowed. The mobile rang again, and again. Bond picked it up on that third ring.

“Bond,” he said by way of greeting.

“I need to pull you out early,” Mallory said. “I know you have two more days, but we have a situation. I need you to come in.”

Bond was already standing, reaching for his jacket. “I’m on my way.”

* * *

Tanner and Argall were both in Mallory’s office by the time Bond arrived. From the sound of it, they were arguing. Moneypenny’s desk was unoccupied.

“Bond,” Mallory said, catching sight of him loitering outside the door. “Come in, and quickly. We have a situation.”

“What’s happened?” Bond asked, stepping in between Tanner and Argall.

“Paris,” Tanner said. _Paris_. Bond sincerely doubted that it was a coincidence. “It’s a disaster. Five Risen in the past _twenty minutes_. DGSI can’t find them, and there have been sightings.”

“It’s daylight,” Bond said. “Necromancer?”

“Unknown. No ID on any of the Risen yet,” Argall said. She had a tablet in one hand that she tapped at irregular intervals. “According to the French, they’re working in tandem.”

“Risen working together?” Bond asked, looking at Mallory. His face was pale, and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. “No necromancer’s raised more than one at a time. Five necromancers?”

“The only precedent we have for this is Elliott,” Mallory said. Bond’s eyes narrowed. “We haven’t found a single necromancer linked to either Borden or Cross, much less two. They have to have found a way.”

“I told Eve,” Bond said. “Death killed Q.”

Mallory sat up straighter. “What?” he asked, voice sharp. Bond tilted his head slightly, looking to Tanner and Argall. “When did you last see her?”

“Her?” Bond asked. Did they know about Vesper? They couldn’t.

“Moneypenny,” Mallory said. “When?”

“When I left the hospital,” Bond said. “She walked me to the door. She thought I was a fool to leave so soon.”

Mallory looked to Tanner. Beside Bond, Argall cleared her throat.

“If no one’s going to tell him, I will,” she said. Bond turned to her. “After you were discharged, Moneypenny left by herself. No one’s seen or heard from her since.”

“She’s missing?” Bond asked.

Mallory looked sick. “It’s been days. We’ve had men across the city looking for her and we’ve found nothing.”

Bond’s mind raced. Vesper wouldn’t have taken Moneypenny. There was no reason to grab her—not that Bond knew of, anyway, and Vesper had always played a deep game. Either Moneypenny’s disappearance was unrelated, or…

“If what you say is true,” Mallory said, “then Death may be responsible for the Paris attacks. Bond.” Bond straightened himself slightly. “I know how much you’ve lost to that _thing_. We haven’t forgotten Elliott, or Walker. Even so, you’re the only agent we have who can face Death without fear. I need you to take this mission.”

Bond nodded shortly. “Ready to go, sir,” he said.

Mallory shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “Take them down,” he said. “With or without the French. If anyone asks, this is another routine mission for us. Make it quick, and then come back. I can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

Bond accepted a dossier from Tanner, a thin file that Bond suspected would be no help at all.

“Take care, Bond,” Tanner said. Bond flashed a tight smile, then turned to Argall. She stared at him, finger hovering above her tablet.

“Take care,” she echoed. Bond doubted she was sincere. Even so, he gave her a smile as well before he left the office, passing Moneypenny’s empty desk. He paused before it, running a finger over the corner. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end: someone was watching him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Argall staring from inside Mallory’s office. No sooner had he looked at her than her eyes darted away, but Bond had already seen the look on her face.

Bond was sure: whatever had happened to Moneypenny, Argall was in on it.

* * *

The drive into Paris were short and smooth. Bond checked into his hotel without issue and found himself in a plain room—he hadn’t bothered to alter his accommodations. After making sure the room was secure, he checked his kit. Four guns, a lighter, five vials of methanol, three knives of varying lengths, and a disassembled sniper rifle. He checked the point of each knife before setting the weaponry aside. Not a bad haul, all told.

Of course, Bond had brought a few toys of his own.

He picked up the dossier and thumbed through the contents. As he’d expected, it told him little he hadn’t already known. Five Risen, all sighted near Sacré-Cœur. Bond was to make contact with an agent from the DGSI within the next four hours. Their rendezvous point was a church, Notre Dame de Pentecôte, just a short walk away from the Carpe Diem building, the top seven floors of which were devoted to the Thales Group.

It was almost too good.

Bond tossed the dossier aside, too, and checked out the window. Still daylight, not that it mattered so much with Undead Risen. He looked back to the array on the bed.

He had a few hours to kill.

* * *

One false ID and an explanation given quickly and politely had Bond through the front doors and into a lift headed for the top of the Carpe Diem. Others got off at earlier floors, looking decidedly away from Bond. Bond stared straight ahead throughout the short ride up. His reflection in the chrome of the lift doors stared back.

So, too, did Vesper, however briefly.

Bond was the last to exit the lift. A long metallic hall lit with fluorescent white panels met him. He walked, his steps resounding sharply, up to a receptionist’s desk. To the left of it was a listing of the above floors—Duran was two up. The man sitting behind the desk looked up at Bond with disinterest, then confusion.

Bond looked back with recognition.

“Mr. Green,” he murmured.

“You— You’re not Hawthorne,” the man said in French. His eyes focused just over Bond’s shoulder. “Alice?”

“No to both,” Bond said. “Too bad, isn’t it?”

* * *

Bond got out of the building just before the police arrived. He hadn’t seen any cameras, but he decided to take the long route to the _église_ anyway.

It had been too risky by far. He should have waited, should have drawn them out. Now there were six bodies, only two of which counted toward his—toward Q. He’d been careful, at least, to only use his own guns. He’d chosen his cleanest for the job. No way to trace back to MI6, or to him.

Still. Bond rolled his shoulders and surreptitiously looked about as he strode toward the decidedly corporate industry church across the street. No sense in taking too big of a risk. He would need to be more careful with the others. If someone got an idea of what he intended to do, the endeavor would be over.

He searched the crowd for a glimpse of the DGSI agent he was meant to meet. The dossier had given him enough information on her, at least: Diane Collet, one of their necromancy specialists. Bond recognized her name from one of the papers on controlled studies on the matter.

She didn’t seem to be on-site yet. Bond walked to the front of the building and looked up over the shining reflective glass. He couldn’t imagine worshiping in such a place. Then again, he’d never been much for religion. It was hard to, when the dead were walking and people like Q had to die.

 _But he doesn’t have to stay that way_ , Bond thought. It had been Q’s time, but Bond was going to buy him more. He was already halfway there, with five out of ten down. Had Q been on the same page, he would have only needed two more bodies.

Bond could almost see Q’s disparaging face in the glass siding of the building. Bond could get five more, for Q. He had to.

When Bond turned, he caught sight of a blond woman struggling to make her way toward him. Bond recognized her from the photograph. She didn’t look ready to hunt Risen, dressed in a pencil skirt and a loose blouse.

“Mr. Bond?” she asked. Her English was impeccable, if a little American. “I’m Diane Collet, pleased to make your acquaintance.” She offered her hand, and Bond shook it.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he said. “Shall we?”

Collet looped her arm in Bond’s and they began to walk sedately, speaking quietly.

“This is unprecedented,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

“There are five?” Bond asked.

“That we know of,” Collet said. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. I’ll admit, I’m late because I tried something.”

“Oh?” Bond asked, glancing at her.

“I’ve never managed more than one at a time,” she said. “To see if it was possible, I tried two.” She shook her head. “It’s not, Mr. Bond. The stress, it would be… No regular person could manage such a thing.”

“How does it work?” Bond asked. “Raising them, I mean.”

Collet frowned, her mouth shunting to one side. “To be honest, it’s variable. Some of them are harder than others. When we train agents, we—like you, I imagine—use the recently deceased. Those who match the profile to become Vengeful in the next few hours. When the program started, we—or, really, my predecessor—tried using old men from a nearby mortuary who was willing to make an agreement. Some of them were impossible to raise. Our working hypothesis is that they had lived such full lives that they were impossible to pull back—at least, the way we’re doing it. There’s always the possibility that these necromancers are using some method we haven’t found yet.”

Bond frowned. He knew that MI6 had to acquire the bodies from somewhere, but it hadn’t occurred to him that there was a screening process.

“I can’t imagine it, though. See, there’s considerable stress on you—they don’t want to be there, so you have to work to keep them,” Collet continued. “Keep the runes fresh, keep the sealing spells intact. They try to claw it off, sometimes.”

“But then they die,” Bond said, “again.”

Collet shrugged. “I had a woman once—we were training a new batch, hand to hand against a Risen. I don’t know, maybe she was aggravated from the attacks, but she ripped off my wards and kept fighting.”

“She turned Vengeful?”

“From the looks of it. But,” Collet said, “that’s not what it looks like in this case. They’re operating _together_. Like clockwork. Police have the area cordoned off, but tourists are still trying to sneak in to take pictures with Sacré-Cœur and the locals aren’t happy. We need to make this quick.”

* * *

“It was a shooting gallery,” Bond said.

He sat before Mallory’s desk, posture open, as upright as he could be. Mallory stared at him, face blank. He was flanked by Argall and Tanner, both of whom wore similar expressions.

“The Risen,” Mallory said carefully, “lined up on a street by Sacré-Cœur and remained right where they were while you shot them down. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Collet’s report corroborates mine,” Bond said.

“And there was no necromancer.”

“None that we could see.”

“And Death?”

“As usual. Collet saw it.”

Bond left out how she’d fainted in place at the sight of what appeared to be her husband. Collet, he’d learned, had never actually gone hunting Risen before. It had been her first real operation.

“You’re doing so well,” Vesper had said, eyeing the collapsed form of Collet. “Her, not so much.”

“Thanks to you,” Bond said.

Vesper smiled benignly. “Halfway there,” she’d said.

“Bond,” Mallory said, bringing him back to the present moment, “you said before that you thought Death was behind this.”

“I still do,” Bond said.

“Did it try to,” Mallory said, glancing once at Tanner, “stop you?”

Bond shrugged. “No,” he said.

“You have to understand—”

“I understand perfectly, sir,” Bond said. He looked to Argall. “Do you want the kit now or later?”

“Bond, be serious about this,” Tanner said. “What you’re describing doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” Bond said. _Not if you don’t know_. “It doesn’t.”

“007, it seems there must be something you’re not relating,” Argall said, speaking for the first time since Bond had entered the office.

Bond knew he was trained to give no reaction to such statements. He could remain impassive under duress, could continue to smile and talk blithely about the weather even while someone attempted to kill him.

Even so, he couldn’t help but wonder if something showed on his face. The way the three of them stared at him made him feel transparent, as if he’d somehow lost all that he’d perfected over the years.

“Well, if you must know, Collet collapsed,” Bond said. “You didn’t tell me she was new.”

Mallory sat back in his seat and cursed softly. Tanner allowed his head to fall forward.

“Be serious, Bond,” Mallory said.

“I am very serious, sir,” Bond said. “Whatever happened there, it was new. Death _wanted_ us to take down those Risen.”

“You think it wanted to prove a point?” Tanner asked. “But why?”

“So far, Death has merely watched and acted as aggressor only when attacked,” Argall said, looking down at her shoes. “I wonder…”

“If you’ve something to say, Q, I suggest you say it,” Mallory said.

Argall frowned. “Perhaps Vengeful Risen don’t rise on their own after all.” A silence filled the room at the thought. Bond stared at Argall as she slowly formed the words, speaking as though it pained her. Still, she never hesitated or tripped as she laid out her hypothesis. Bond wondered how long she’d been sitting on it.

“Maybe,” she said, “the individual we’ve termed Death is responsible for the Vengeful Risen. Perhaps Death is their necromancer.”

“That hardly makes sense,” Tanner said. “Death would have to be everywhere at once. Besides, necromancers control the targets. Vengeful Risen all follow a pattern.”

“Maybe Death keeps them to a pattern,” Argall said. “Maybe there’s a plan. Maybe—”

Mallory sighed. “Q. While I appreciate your idea, I find it improbable that Death, whatever it may be, is responsible for every Vengeful Risen.”

“Improbable, but not impossible,” Argall said. “We can’t rule it out.”

Mallory looked ready to collapse from frustration. “And we can neither confirm nor deny,” he said, “because we have no evidence.” He looked sharply up to Bond. “Is that all, 007?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Bond said.

“Very well. I’ll let you know if something else comes up.”

Bond knew a dismissal when he heard one, but Mallory’s tone had him concerned.

“Sir?” Bond asked.

“My predecessor always thought that your ability to face Death without returning to us a blubbering mess was a point in your favour,” Mallory said. “It used to be a rare occasion that Death appeared on operations. Now you can’t seem to turn around without that thing showing up and the dead are coming back in unprecedented numbers. Until we know why, I’m grounding you.”

Bond resisted the urge to smile. He’d been given the time he needed.

“Of course, sir,” Bond said. He rose, straightening his jacket and his cuffs. Argall stared openly at him.

“I’ll return my kit tomorrow,” Bond said to her.

“Tomorrow,” Argall murmured, keeping her eyes fixed on him. “Don’t forget.”

* * *

Bond didn’t forget. He packed the kit back up with care. Everything went back where it had been with the exception of the five bullets he’d spent, one for each Risen. He did, momentarily, consider stealing one of the knives and writing it off as lost—they were so lovely and so sharp—but Argall knew there hadn’t been a scuffle. After mourning the loss of such pretty blades, Bond put those back where they belonged in the kit.

He made one detour before he hit Q Division: he headed to the café around the corner for breakfast.

“Good morning,” he said to Fields when he caught sight of her.

She smiled thinly at him as she filled his coffee. “Good morning,” she said.

“Lovely day today.”

He’d need to look up her address. The café was much too crowded. Someone would remember his face.

After, he headed straight for Q Division, kit in hand. The floor was somewhat back to its usual state. Argall stood up at the front with 002, talking quietly over a kit. Bond waited, hanging back by the doors. He watched as Argall awkwardly patted 002 on the shoulder and said something that was likely meant to be encouraging. 002 offered a smile—disingenuous,to be sure—and took the kit in hand. Finished with Argall, 002 turned toward the doors. When she caught sight of Bond, she came to his side.

“Bond,” she said. “I heard you got grounded? Tell me you’re not.”

Bond shrugged. “Last operation went too easy. They think Death’s got it out for me.”

002 shook her head. “Christ,” she said. “All these attacks, and they bench two of us?—or, one of us, now that Fourteen is— It’s not right.”

Bond watched 002 as she talked. She fluttered—she always moved a lot, fidgeting and swinging herself like she had no control over her limbs—but this was something else. Her makeup was done without its usual finesse and she hadn’t put on perfume.

“Marie,” Bond said, “are you all right?”

“Am I—oh, sure, sure,” she said. “I’m— It’s the job, you know?” She ruffled her hair, tucked a piece behind her ear, and promptly dislodged it again. “Too many operations back to back. Jet-lag. That _thing_.” She swallowed, taking in a sharp breath. “I mean, you know what I’m talking about.”

“I do,” Bond said. He looked across the floor at Argall, who scrutinized the pair of them. “I do.”

“How did he die?” 002 asked.

Bond stilled. “Who?”

“Fourteen,” 002 said. “Walker. I—” She seemed to will herself to remain in one place for a moment. “They didn’t tell us anything. It’s not in any of the files. I checked. You were there.”

“Death killed him,” Bond said. “I’m not sure how. I—saw it. She took his life.”

“Why?” 002 asked. “If—is this what we’re dealing with now? Risen are one thing, but monsters? Real monsters?” She took in a breath. Bond thought she might vibrate out of existence. “I think it’s coming for me.”

“What is?” Bond asked.

“Death,” 002 said. “I have a feeling.”

“She’s not going to kill you,” Bond said.

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“No,” 002 said, taking a step back. “You said _she_.”

Bond stopped himself from doing anything immediate and rash. “I did,” he said.

“You— Have you started seeing it?” 002 asked. They’d been speaking quietly enough for the duration of their conversation, but now she whispered.

“Yes,” Bond admitted. “Something changed, and I started seeing it.”

002 visibly hesitated. “It’s not my business to ask,” she said, more to herself.

Bond knew what she had almost asked: _who is it for you? Is it your parents, someone you loved, a friend?_

“If you want me to talk to M for you—” Bond started.

“No,” 002 said. “No, I can do this. It’s just—this is new, you know? It’s a little late in the game for something new, but you know that.” She smiled tightly. Bond reciprocated. “I’ve got to be off,” she said. “When I get back, drinks? Maybe dinner? Both?”

“Of course,” Bond lied. He stepped aside as 002 waltzed past him, swaying violently. She needed to go to Medical, or, better yet, Psych. That Mallory was desperate enough to send her out on back to back operations when she looked ready to fall over herself from mental and physical exhaustion spoke volumes.

 _That they benched you speaks more_ , Bond thought, beginning to walk toward Q’s old desk. Argall hadn’t moved a centimeter. _They’re desperate for help, but they don’t trust you. You have to move quickly, you have to_ —

“Kit,” Bond said, presenting it to Argall.

“007,” she said, voice cool. “What a surprise.”

“I’m never late for a date,” Bond said. She smiled without humour.

“I trust everything worked to your satisfaction?” Argall asked, opening it up. She picked up one of the knives and ran her finger over the edge, much as Bond had earlier that morning.

“Didn’t get to use most of it,” Bond said. “If I had another job, I’d be able to tell you.”

“I think you know just fine,” Argall said.

“Excuse me?”

Argall was not a small woman. Roughly Bond’s height, she tried to make herself even taller, her eyes flickering between his own as she stepped into his space.

“I don’t trust you, 007,” Argall said.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

She shook her head. “Don’t be coy with me,” she said. “You’re hiding something.”

“Everyone has secrets.”

“You’ve always got a quick response, don’t you? Always slick and suave. I’m going to find out what it is, and if it in any way compromises this institution, I’m going to have your head for it.”

“I’m sure,” Bond said. “Let me know if you find anything.” Argall glared at him as he held his ground, unmoving.

“What happened in Paris?” she asked.

“Five Risen did something stupid and I killed them for it,” Bond said.

“As if Death wouldn’t try to take a bite out of you. You saw what that thing’s done to 002. What’s it got on you?”

“What could it have?” Bond asked. “You sound like you suspect something specific.”

“I do.”

“Enlighten me.”

Argall stared at Bond for a moment, hardly breathing. “I think you made a deal with Death,” she said. “I think you’re planning to bring someone back—not as a Risen, but as a person, alive and whole again. You want to reshape history to reverse their death.”

The air left Bond’s lungs. Argall looked triumphant. Bond took half a second to recall Argall’s file, the oddities of her history.

“You say that like you know how such a deal would work,” Bond said. Argall said nothing. “You were court-martialed, weren’t you? Something about your mother—”

“Enough,” Argall said.

“Reports said the evidence was _damning_ ,” Bond said, enunciating. “They wanted to have you executed.”

“ _Enough_ ,” Argall said, low and under her breath. Bond merely smiled. “Your threats do not scare me.”

Bond looked Argall over: blown pupils, accelerated rate of breathing, pale face, flushed extremities, folded arms—even crossed ankles.

“I’m sure,” Bond said. “Unless you have something else to say, there’s a bottle of scotch with my name on it.” Argall said nothing in response, and Bond made his way toward the door. “Do give my regards to Anna and Aubergine.”


	5. Act V

Though he seriously considered doing otherwise, Bond did go home and pour himself a drink. He used the secure servers Q had kept to begin searching for Fields.

It didn’t take Bond long to find her. Apple Fields— _what a name_ , Bond thought. Parents were still alive and lived in Northern Ireland. No siblings, no spouse. Facebook page was full of pictures Fields out with friends, making duck faces at the camera.

Bond set his search aside and had another drink.

Before the forties, or maybe so far as the fifties, Risen weren’t common by any stretch of the imagination. Or, if they were common, travel and communication wasn’t easy enough to broadcast them to the world. There were reports of the dead coming back from time to time, but the world was by turns too large and too preoccupied with war on an unprecedented scale to care.

After that, though, the game changed. MI6 came into being. The original goal of the service was strict espionage, with the double-0 section bearing a license to kill _living_ people—arms dealers, lunatics with bombs, terrorists who’d gained too much influence. Two kills, and you were in. The Risen were something of a side-project, an oh-by-the-way.

Over time, things had changed. There were fewer missions with living targets. That’s when Bond had come in. He was one of the first to cut his teeth on the Risen, to focus on them almost exclusively. It wasn’t what he’d intended to do—he thought he’d be following in the footsteps of the old agents—but he hadn’t minded, if only because he was doing what he considered good work.

Paris had been the first he’d killed someone who’d still been _alive_ in four years—since Silva, in fact. Green had been a no-one, and Bond hadn’t let Duran get in a word edgewise. The guards had been faceless. None of those kills had bothered him.

Fields, though. Fields bothered him, and he hadn’t even gotten to her yet.

Bond had lost the habit of pushing the human aside in favour of the mission. It was easy with Risen, dead as they were, but Fields had friends. She had parents who probably cared about her well-being. She had a life.

Bond finished his drink. He’d go after Dr. Lighter next. No research needed—he knew where to find him already. He’d head out as soon as the coast was clear. A few hours would be enough to bore the agents MI6 had put on his tail. Bond had spotted them earlier—there was the man chain-smoking at the end of the block, and another driving in circles apparently looking for a parking spot.

Unfortunately for the two of them, Bond could play their game better than anyone alive, and even amongst the dead, only M knew it better.

M. She wouldn’t have approved. Bond wondered if she could see him, if she knew. Would it change anything?

 _No_. Bond set his glass aside and settled in on the sofa. It was early in the day, not even noon yet, but he’d had a drink and now he felt a little drowsy. He considered heading for the bed but didn’t feel like moving. Bond closed his heavy eyes and felt himself sink into the cushions.

* * *

Killing Lighter proved easier than Bond had anticipated.

He waited until dark, then pinched a car and headed to King’s College Hospital. Bond barely had time to park before he saw Lighter leaving the building, no doubt ready to head home after a long shift. Bond didn’t hesitate: he drew his weapon and took five clean shots from a distance.

The first three had done the job just fine; the last two Bond took to prove to himself that he could. In the silence after the last shot, he didn’t bother to check Lighter’s pulse. It was clear enough that the man was dead. After taking a brief look around—no witnesses he could see, which meant they couldn’t see him—Bond climbed back into the driver’s seat and headed away.

He ditched the car, just to be safe, and walked back to his flat.

Of the two agents, one was still loitering around his building. Bond guessed the other was still circling, pretending to park.

“Evening,” Bond greeted, waving at the agent he could see. The man visibly startled as Bond headed for the front door.

As soon as he was back in his flat, Bond retrieved his mobile and texted Tanner.

_Tail, really?_

A few minutes later, Bond had a response: _???_

 _The two agents outside my flat since this morning_ , Bond sent. He leaned out the window and took a photograph of one of them for good measure.

Tanner’s response was immediate. _No one’s following you._ _That’s not one of ours_.

Bond stared at the screen. It was difficult to say if Tanner was telling the truth from the tone of the message. Bond was half-tempted to call him, but Tanner was good at keeping his secrets when he felt like it.

Bond set the mobile aside and returned to the window. The agent he’d photographed was gone. The other one still hadn’t reappeared. He frowned at the spot on the curb where the agent had stood.

_Bond, are you okay?_

This, from Tanner.

Bond wasn’t sure how to answer.

 _Tired_ , he answered. _Long day._

 _Drinks?_ Tanner suggested. Bond considered it. It had the potential to be an airtight alibi if he decided to get Fields out of the way that night as well.

Bond shook the idea out of his mind. _Too risky_ , he thought. Still. He was so _close_. He texted Tanner the address of a pub nearby where they could get decent drinks and be left mostly alone and did his best to make himself presentable before he set out into the night once more.

* * *

“You look like shite,” Tanner said upon catching sight of him. Bond scowled.

“Not my best lighting,” Bond said, noting the dim atmosphere.

“Christ, Bond,” Tanner said, “when’s the last time you slept?”

“Last night,” Bond said, "and earlier today." He had, sort of, just not well. He watched as Tanner ordered them drinks—several each. Tanner clearly had something on his mind, or else wanted something from Bond’s.

Bond steeled himself and kept his face neutral when Tanner turned back to him.

“Don’t give me that look,” Tanner said. “You still think I sent that one after you? Look, I—” Tanner glanced to one side, indicating a booth. “We need to talk.”

Bond affected an air of nonchalance as he headed to the booth, leaving Tanner to pick up the drinks. He waited, hiding his impatience carefully as he considered what Tanner might want to talk about.

Lighter was a possibility. It had only been an hour ago or so, but maybe word had reached his ears. Of course, if Tanner suspected that Bond had killed him, they wouldn’t be having the conversation in a pub—probably. Had Moneypenny reappeared? Bond worried about her. She wasn’t a field agent, not anymore. Had Collet’s report been odd in some way? Bond couldn’t imagine what that might look like. The job had been clean, open and shut.

Tanner returned with a tray of drinks.

“Rough night?” Bond asked, eyeing them. Tanner got to work dividing the drinks between the two of them. Bond’s looked pedestrian enough, but most of Tanner’s were alarming shades of pink and blue. “Very rough.”

Tanner cursed under his breath, and Bond laughed.

“Ha bloody ha,” Tanner said. He bottomed a shot of something and winced as it went down. “You have no idea.”

Bond thought of Lighter, bleeding in the King’s College parking lot.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Tanner said. “You’ve always been a friend to me.”

“This conversation never happened?” Bond asked. Tanner didn’t smile. That was a yes.

“Eve’s still missing,” Tanner said. “I’ve been working with Q trying to track her down, but we can’t find her anywhere. M’s got his hands tied with China now—they’ve been cracking down on Risen reports across Vietnam, Nepal, and everywhere in between. India and Bangladesh have definitive proof of border violations by Chinese troops.”

Bond reached for one of his drinks but did not bring it to his lips. “Sounds messy,” he said.

Tanner stared at him. “I tried to talk M out of grounding you,” he said.

“Oh?”

“No progress,” Tanner said. He downed a blue martini that smelled like menthol. “I’ll wear him down, though.”

Bond shrugged. “Time off might do me some good.” Across the table, Tanner froze.

“Good?” Tanner said. “Bond, you— Do you _see_ yourself?”

“I’m not that bad,” Bond said.

“You smell like yesterday’s garbage, you haven’t shaved, and you look like hell froze over. Bond, you—” Tanner rubbed his face. “This is about Elliott, isn’t it?”

Bond sighed. “He’s not—”

Tanner held up his hands. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“You’re not wrong,” Bond said.

Tanner’s stare had more pity in it than Bond was entirely comfortable with, so he took a sip of his drink. Cheap liquor, but he could stomach it. He took another.

“I don’t know if M told you,” he said, “but the security breach Elliott picked up? You were right, it came through a few seconds before he died. Too close not to have been timed for it.”

“I figured as much,” Bond said.

“Still no word on the necromancer,” Tanner said.

“No.”

Tanner looked at the sticky table that sat between them. “If Death’s raising the dead, then…” He trailed off. “Bond, what are we doing?” Bond didn’t get a chance to answer. “How do we fight something like that? It can’t be— It can’t—”

“You saw it,” Bond said, “outside of the bank.”

Tanner nodded slowly. “First time,” he said. “Wasn’t really prepared. I guess you’re lucky; it doesn’t look like anything to you.”

“It used to look like nothing much,” Bond said.

“Used to?”

Bond hesitated. _Too risky, too risky…_ “Used to,” he confirmed.

“Elliott,” Tanner said.

Bond’s heart caught in his chest. Not Q, never Q.

“I’m so sorry,” Tanner said. “I didn’t know you two were so close.”

“Don’t be,” Bond said.

They went quiet for a few moments. The pub wasn’t loud by any stretch of the imagination, but Bond could see himself getting lost in the noise. If he were any more drunk, he could pretend that it was Q up at the bar and Vesper a few seats down. He could fill in the blanks, hold someone warm and believe, for a few hours, that he wasn’t lying to anyone at all.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Bond,” Tanner said.

Bond had the grace not to choke, but it was a near thing.

“When I saw it,” Tanner continued, “it was—” He took a gulp of the pink drink. Bond saw that his hands were shaking. “You know I went home and I couldn’t look my wife in the eye?” Tanner smiled. _Defensive mechanism_. He was about to weep. Bond had not signed up for this. “She kept asking me, _what’s wrong, what’s wrong, Bill?_ ” The way Tanner mimicked her voice was unkind, but Bond didn’t mention it. “I couldn’t tell her. How do you explain that there’s some _thing_ out there, something powerful and horrible that looks like someone you love?”

Tanner took a drink, and then another. Bond waited.

“And it’s too much,” Tanner said. “I hardly see my kids anymore. I know what we’re doing is important, but _Christ_. It’s not just me, either. I talked to Marie before she shipped out.”

“So did I,” Bond said. “She seemed on edge.”

“I wonder why,” Tanner said, sarcasm dripping from his lips. “She’s been doing jobs back to back. I read her last mission report. You know that thing _followed_ her?”

Bond tilted his head. “Followed?”

“It showed up during the operation, while she was waiting for the Risen to strike,” Tanner said, leaning over the table. His eyes were wild with drink and panic. Distantly, Bond realized that this wasn’t a conversation to have in public, but Tanner kept going. “She took down the mark, and rather than leave, Death _followed her_. Back to her hotel room. Back to the _plane_. People saw it—check the news in Mexico City. Government’s writing it off as hysteria, but there were a _lot_ of people.”

“No wonder she was a wreck,” Bond muttered, remembering how 002 looked under the fluorescent lights of Q Division.

“No wonder,” Tanner echoed. “She thought you might be considering it as well.”

“Quitting?” Bond asked. _No, of course not_ danced on the tip of his tongue, but then there was Q. If he succeeded, neither of them would have a future with MI6. “This conversation never happened?” he asked.

“Never,” Tanner said.

“Yes,” Bond said. “Planning on it, in fact.”

Tanner did _not_ have the grace not to choke on his drink. Bond handed him one of those flimsy paper napkins, and Tanner did his best to mop himself up.

“ _Christ_. I knew, but— Christ, Bond,” Tanner said. “How long?”

“Have I known, or before I leave?” Bond asked. “Since Q died.” Tanner, just this side of too drunk, looked earnestly sorry for Bond. “As for how long I’ll stay…” Bond took a drink and realized that Tanner had started in on his. He didn’t mind too much. “Haven’t decided.”

“Well, good for you,” Tanner said. “Would I had the guts to walk away.”

“Mallory needs you,” Bond said, “now more than ever.”

“He needs you, too,” Tanner said. “And you’re leaving.”

“So might you.”

“So might I.”

* * *

After ensuring that Tanner got on his feet and out the door all right, Bond headed out. His conversation with Tanner had reenergized him—he didn’t feel like going home, much less like sleeping.

He’d made it official, or official enough. He’d be leaving MI6. He’d do it properly, as soon as he was sure he had Q back.

 _Alive_. He could hardly imagine. Q tended to run cold rather than hot—his hands were always clammy, and his nose and toes were perpetually cold, but Bond knew how warm his cheeks could get when he laughed, how his chest felt when they lay side by side, the exact rhythm of his pulse when he was about to fall asleep.

With that in mind, it was almost without thinking that Bond ended up on Fields’ street. He’d brought nothing with him for drinks with Tanner—no guns, no car, and nothing else besides.

Then again, M—his M, back when it had been _his_ country and _his_ service and _his_ Q—had called him a weapon before. She’d been right, in more ways than one.

* * *

_LOCAL NEWS: DOCTOR GUNNED DOWN AT KINGS COLLEGE_

_A PHYSICIAN was killed late last night in the parking lot of King’s College Hospital._

_Officials say Dr. Ferdinand Lighter was shot five times as he left the emergency department. Dr. Lighter leaves a wife and three children._

_No witnesses have yet come forward in connection with the attack._

 

_LOCAL NEWS: WOMAN STRANGLED IN OWN APARTMENT_

_POLICE are searching for a man in connection with the death of a woman late last night._

_Apple Fields, 25, was strangled in her apartment. Officers on the scene found evidence of a struggle. Neighbors reported hearing no noise and saw no one unusual before or after the attack._

_Police are asking anyone with any information to come forward._

 

The reports were in the paper the next day, tucked near the end.

Bond didn’t care so much about Lighter—he’d been easy—but he remembered the feel of Fields’ throat under his hands, how her pulse fluttered and then extinguished altogether. The cool porcelain of his coffee cup felt entirely different and better in his grip as he took a sip. Lovely counterpoint.

Bond told himself to stick to guns in the future.

“More coffee?”

Bond half-expected to see Vesper when he looked up. Instead, he was met with a woman with a dour face and half-done makeup.

“Please,” Bond said. He pushed his mug closer so she could pour as her eyes caught on the paper.

“You read about Apple?” she asked.

“Who?” Bond asked.

“Apple Fields,” the woman said, pointing one manicured finger at the brief article. “Killed last night.”

“Oh my,” Bond said.

“Yeah. She worked here,” the woman said. She didn’t look distraught.

“Sorry for your loss,” Bond said.

The woman shrugged. “I told her to get out of that flat,” she said. “Seedy area. Bad living for a pretty girl like her.” Bond didn’t remember Fields being pretty. “If you tell me, she had it coming.”

The waitress poured Bond’s refill and left for the kitchen. Bond watched her as she went. When he drank his coffee, it tasted like filthy brine.

* * *

Three to go.

Bond went home. He could still feel Fields’ pulse in his fingers. He needed sleep, and maybe a hot shower. He felt like he hadn’t slept for days, which he knew not to be true. He’d slept more in the past week than he ever did.

The cold was new, though. Bond only felt the chill when Vesper was around, but now it was a constant presence for him. It was as if someone had wrapped him in a jacket of cold and kept it there somehow, pressing in on all sides.

Bond took a hot shower. He slept. Nothing helped.

Q stood at the foot of his bed, arms folded, miserable. That didn’t help either.

“You killed her,” Q said. “You—”

“Save your strength,” Bond said. He moved to run his fingers through Q’s hair. He met no resistance—of course not, Q wasn’t—he still wasn’t—but Bond felt _frozen_ then. He felt warm gloves (now cold, gone), hard pavement (now washed down), and fresh cuts (still bleeding).

“James,” Q said. “It’s not too late to stop this. You tell her you’re not going to do any more.”

“Q,” Bond said. “Come back, Q. Don’t hold on to death. I have seven. That’s what Vesper said she needed, if you wanted to come back.”

Q shrunk away as if stung. “If I— How _dare_ you put this on me.” He swallowed, eyes full. Bond wondered if the dead could cry after all. “Stop trying to bring me back. Please, _please_ don’t do this.”

“I love you too much not to,” Bond said.

“Do you?” Q snapped. “Do you even remember? Look at you, look at what you’ve done!”

Bond’s attention was drawn away from Q by something passing outside, something dark and enormous. When he looked back, Q was gone.

In his place stood Vesper.

“Still doesn’t appreciate you,” Vesper said. “Not like I did, anyway.”

“Where is he?” Bond demanded.

“Safe and sound, though he hardly deserves it,” Vesper said. “You’ve done so well.”

“Seven,” Bond said. “I have seven.”

Vesper hummed. She walked—no, she _glided_ —to Bond’s window. She stared down into the plaza below and tapped on the window.

“Three more,” she said.

“When he comes back,” Bond said, “will he…remember this?”

Something odd happened to Vesper’s face. Bond could only see it in the reflection—there was something in her eyes.

“No,” Vesper said. “He won’t.”

Bond closed his eyes. “Thank God.”

“That pleases you?”

“Of course,” Bond said. “He won’t know what I’ve done.”

Vesper turned from the window. “No,” she said. “He won’t. No one will.” Bond heaved a sigh of relief. Vesper turned back to look outside.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” she called.

“Ask what?” Bond asked.

“About _Marie_ ,” Vesper said. “About _Bill_.”

Bond swallowed. “You have your reasons.”

“That’s never been good enough for you,” Vesper chided. “Go on. Ask.”

“Why are you determined to drive Marie mad?” Bond asked.

Vesper rolled her shoulders from side to side. “To see if I could,” she said. “Even I have limits. Besides, she reminds me of who I used to be.”

“That’s all?”

She hummed again. “It’s funny, being me,” she said. “None of you remember me.”

“I do.”

“You remember me _now_. That’s only because we made an agreement. Everyone else… They’ve forgotten. When I became Death, I rewrote history.”

“You…” Bond didn’t know how to articulate his question.

“Became Death,” Vesper said. “You’ll understand.”

“Oh, really?”

Vesper’s smile was sad. “Yes,” she said. “You will.”

* * *

After that, Bond could hardly wait.

With a slight change of plans, he could accrue his three final kills all at the same time—all at Chelsea and Westminster. There was no need for subtlety. No need to worry about risk. No need for patience. Q wouldn’t remember Bond’s brutality, the kills, the way in which he took what he needed from people who, in another life, had been monsters worthy of killing.

Bond used one of Q’s programs to check the doctors’ schedules at Chelsea and Westminster. Dr. Montes was in the ED; Dr. Mathis was up in the admitted ward. Bond checked the room and occupant— _perfect_.

Bond packed up his equipment and headed for the hospital.

* * *

As it happened, Bond was lucky.

Or, more likely in Bond’s mind, Vesper was working in his favour. Dr. Montes was talking with a clerk at the front of the ED. People crowded the waiting room, some sick, some not, all jostling for attention.

Bond put a bullet in Dr. Montes’ forehead.

There were screams, mostly at him. The clerk threw herself away from Dr. Montes as she collapsed, unseeing, already gone. Those in the waiting room ran if they could, cowered if they couldn’t. Officers—there for security—made to shoot him. Bond caught them first, one in the neck, one in the ribs, and headed for the stairs. The alarms sounded, and Bond heard doors slamming, but he kept climbing until he reached the fourth storey. He could see the floor plans in his mind from what he’d found earlier: he could picture the hallways, which rooms were where. When he forced the hall door open, he knew exactly where he needed to go.

The fourth storey was already clear of people. No doubt the staff had a lockdown procedure, not that it would help them when Bond came through. Police were likely on their way.

That was fine. He was going to end this in the next few minutes.

Up ahead was room 4419. Bond took a deep breath, then kicked in the door. Someone yelled. Behind him, the lift doors opened. Bond made to aim at the boy in the hospital bed. He was never going to wake up anyway.

Between Bond and the boy stood a man with a name tag.

“Oh,” Bond said. “There you are.”

He shot Mathis twice before he could even come close.

Someone was running. Bond spun around in time to see—

Moneypenny took aim and missed by centimeters. Bond ducked into the room, checking his clip. One shot left, plus the half-dozen rounds he’d brought with him, just in case.

“Eve,” Bond called. “So good to see you.”

“Bond, whatever it is you think you’re doing, _stop it_.”

Bond looked at the boy— _James Borden._ Funny how it was going to end this way.

“I’m going to save him,” Bond called.

“Elliott is dead,” Moneypenny said. “He’s _dead_ , Bond.”

“ _Q_ ,” Bond seethed. “You don’t have a right to call him anything else.”

“And you do?” Moneypenny said. “Bond, I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if it means saving that boy from your madness.”

“Madness,” Bond said. “ _Madness_.”

“Argall told me everything,” Moneypenny said.

“Of course she did,” Bond murmured. Louder, he said, “Those agents were yours, then? Following me around? They weren’t very good.”

“You can’t bring him back,” Moneypenny said. She was edging closer. Bond wondered what kind of back-up she’d brought, if any. “If you’d talked to Argall, you’d know that. There’s a _cost_.”

“I know,” Bond said. He couldn’t help it: he laughed. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Bond—”

“The world needs him in it,” Bond said. Moneypenny whipped around the corner, rifle raised. Bond had already sighted along the barrel of his Walther. Just a single shot.

Bond remembered the boy. He’d see him in the mirror every day for years, sad and scared and afraid and alone. Now, he had to die.

Bond pulled the trigger as Moneypenny did.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this final chapter; a lot happened today. I hope you enjoy this last segment! I currently have nothing more written for this 'verse, but... We'll see. Thanks for reading!

_Nine o’clock in the morning on a Wednesday in London._

Q frowned at his laptop and brought a mug of tea to his lips. He was in early, as per usual. He’d brought Anna and Aubergine with him today, and they stalked about the floor. Argall had bribed Aubergine with treats the day before, so Aubergine sat _mreow_ ing at her while she worked at her desk. Anna, on the other hand, had taken to curling around the legs of unsuspecting quartermasters soliciting attention. Several quartermasters had already caved under the pressure. All told, Q thought the morning had the makings of a fine day.

The doors to Q Division opened. 0014, a massive man, came striding across the floor.

“Ah, 0014,” Q said as he approached. “Good to see you.”

“Q,” 0014 said, nodding his greetings.

“Here’s your kit,” Q said, sliding a case across the table. Inside was enough equipment for the three Risen Q had been told 0014 would be hunting. 0014 accepted the kit without checking it; Q knew it to be a motion of trust rather than apathy. “You’re headed to Scotland, correct,” Q said, phrasing the question as a statement. “The weather’s sure to be terrible—even worse than this morning’s rain. I hope you have an umbrella.”

0014 laughed. “Those moors are deadly with or without one of those,” he said. “I’ll be fine with this.” He ran a finger over one of the edges of the case.

“You laugh,” Q said, “but you’ll be sorry when you’re soaked to your skin and freezing to death.”

“And you’ll be able to say, ‘I told you so,’” 0014 said.

“Don’t tempt him; it’s his favourite thing to say.” Q peered past 0014 to see Moneypenny coming toward them both.

Q snorted at her and said, “Only to you.” To 0014, he said, “But you be careful. Something must be odd.”

“Odd?” Moneypenny asked.

“Three Risen up at Skyfall Lodge in Scotland,” 0014 said. “Gamekeeper who just died, and two long dead ones. Someone bought the property a little while back and found the open graves on an inspection. M’s in a mood because they weren’t found by one of ours.”

Moneypenny pulled a face. “Going after the current occupant?” she asked. “Killed them for the property, perhaps?”

“That’s the thing: the estate has been vacant for years,” 0014 said, “and there’s nothing for miles. The gamekeeper—sure, uneasy rest, maybe a conflict with the new owner. The other two? These Risen have no reason to rise.”

“All the more reason for caution,” Q said. “0014, good luck to you, and bring the equipment back.”

0014 nodded again, grasping his kit tightly as he left the floor. “Ma’am,” he said to Moneypenny as he passed. Moneypenny took 0014’s previous spot in front of Q’s table.

“Eve,” Q said. “What brings you down here?”

“Oh, you know,” Moneypenny said. “This and that.” Q stared at her, eyebrows arched. “Fine. I was hoping to steal your second for the afternoon.”

“Argall?” Q asked, glancing at her. Aubergine still wouldn’t leave her alone. Argall had taken the cat onto her lap in a bid to remain productive while ceding to the cat’s demands. So far, her efforts seemed to be failing.

“There’s a café that’s opened. It’s fairly close. I thought I might take her out.”

Q looked back to Moneypenny. “Are you asking me permission to take one of my associates on date?”

“Not a date,” Moneypenny said. Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you two were…?”

“No,” Q said. “I’m not seeing anyone, least of all her. I thought you had a boyfriend.”

“I did,” Moneypenny said, dismissive. “It didn’t work out. Why not?”

“Why not what?”

“Why aren’t you seeing anyone?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Q said. “It’s no one’s business, anyway.” Moneypenny rolled her eyes. “And if you want a date with Argall, you go ask her yourself.”

“Fine,” Moneypenny said. “I will.”

“Good,” Q said. “Before you do, what’s the café?”

“Going to steal my idea?” Moneypenny asked.

“No, but I have a day off coming up. Thought I might get out a bit, see the city.”

“Our little lab rat, going out exploring?” Moneypenny asked. Q swatted at her, and she laughed. “Sorry, sorry—it’s called Skylights. They’ve got good tea and great pastries.”

“I’d prefer the reverse, but I’ll settle,” Q said. Moneypenny grinned. “If I see you there I promise to look the other way while you openly break fraternization rules.”

“You’re the best, Q,” Moneypenny said, stepping away from his table.

Q shook his head as he returned his attention to the task at hand—checking the firewall for security breaches. He’d woken with the distinct fear of one—that was why he’d come in early, in fact—but he’d yet to find anything conclusive. It would be hours before he had definitive proof one way or the other, though.

* * *

_One o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday in London._

The roads were as clear as they ever were. It had just stopped raining, though the sky was still grey with the promise of more, and pools of rainwater dotted the roads and sidewalks alike.

Q walked, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders around his ears to make the most of his scarf. He had a free hour: his security check was still running, but he didn’t have to be in Q Division, or even in the building, to monitor its progress. Any alerts would come through to his mobile. In the meantime, he had decided that there was no reason to wait for a day off to go get himself a nice cup of tea somewhere new.

So far, Q was curious. When prompted, Moneypenny had given him a set of directions to the café but no address.

“Hard to find,” Moneypenny had said. “GPS doesn’t pick it up.”

That didn’t make any sense whatsoever, but Q wasn’t complaining. He thought he could already smell the pastries as the café came into view ahead of him, just across the street. _Skylights_ seemed to be the name of the place next door, as matter of fact; the café didn’t have it’s own sign.

Q walked briskly down the sidewalk, sidestepping puddles and pedestrians alike, doing his best not to brush into anyone. Checking both ways, he stepped into the intersection just in front of the café.

His mobile beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket— _systems check finished, no breaches detected_. He pocketed it again. It had only been a bad feeling after all.

A chill ran up his spine as he crossed the street. Right about in the middle, he heard someone say, as clear as day, “ _Q_.”It was a deep voice, one Q couldn’t place. He felt a _whoosh_ of air, the sensation of falling, pain in his shoulder. Q looked behind him, but there was no one he knew. Ahead, there was only the café.

“Need more sleep,” Q murmured, pulling the door to the café open and crossing the threshold. The smell of coffee and tea and pastry dough hit him hard, and Q followed the intoxicating smells to the counter.

If he ever got himself a partner—Moneypenny’s jabs aside, he’d been looking for someone for some time now—he’d want to bring them here. He dreamed of someone who would appreciate it with him, who would sit and talk to him and understand what he did and what he’d seen.

In time, maybe, Q would find them. For now, he ordered himself an Earl Grey and a chocolate croissant, warmed up, and sat by the window to watch London pass by.

* * *

_Seven o’clock in the evening on a Wednesday at Skyfall Lodge._

0014 sat on the front stairs of Skyfall and smoked a cigarette. He wasn’t much of a smoker, but he liked to indulge on jobs. Bond had joined him, from time to time. They’d been friends of a sort.

Bond watched him now, unseen, unremembered. He knew that if he appeared to 0014 now, 0014 wouldn’t see him, only Anna, the physics professor and part-time nuclear consultant. The closer he got to 0014, the more he _felt_ like Anna. Bond could sense her bubbling up inside of him, warm and brilliant, but false—Anna was in Oxford, alive and well.

As 0014 puffed on his cigarette, Bond fought to remain himself. Who was he? Gunpowder and hard liquor and pressed suits. He could hardly remember—he’d forgotten what it meant to be alive.

Q had forgotten him.

Bond had loved him, once. He’d forgotten what that felt like, too. He remembered the desperation, the lives he’d taken, the things he’d done—all to reverse history for just a moment, to take a careening car off of the road with a handful of bullets and unwavering trust in a dead woman he’d loved in another life.

He told himself it was worth it.

_You loved him, you loved him, you loved him…_

It didn’t make the cold any warmer, or the loneliness any less lonely.

Across the moors, Bond could tell when Kincade and his parents began to move, their corpses battered and broken and blistering as they scrambled for purchase on the cold ground, hungry and furious. They were coming for him—trying in vain to drag him back down, to kill Death.

Bond wished they could succeed.

* * *

0014 put out his cigarette. It was getting dark now. The Risen would be moving.

He felt something crawl up his back—a sensation not unlike falling. Phantom pain bloomed in his shoulder, and he stretched to relieve it. Under the cover of the night, 0014 retrieved a side arm and set about hunting.


End file.
